


Hold Your Head High and Keep Those Fists Down

by missparker



Category: Major Crimes (TV), The Closer
Genre: 5 Things, Bodyswap, F/F, Tropes, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4575069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/pseuds/missparker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompts that were too long for tumblr. This here's a fic dump. Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hold your head high and keep those fists down

**Author's Note:**

> The title, of course, is from Brenda's [most favorite book in the world](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2657.To_Kill_a_Mockingbird).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 things prompt: Books, Flowers, Letters, Scarf, Mason Jar

**1\. Books**

Captain Raydor’s office is small and this is the first time ever that Brenda has bothered to come to her instead of calling and demanding that she come down to Brenda’s office instead. It’s quiet up here, serene, almost. Raydor’s office is orderly, bright, and though it’s small, it somehow comes off as cozy rather than claustrophobic. Part of the reason is that she’s manage to fit a bookcase against the wall, next to the window, and while Brenda is waiting for Sharon to come back to her office with Brenda’s badge and gun, she looks over the shelves. Mostly it’s work related binders, penal codes and the police code of conduct. A few legal volumes, some Nolo Press editions of California legal guides. But there, right there wedged in tight and pushed back deep is a tattered, worn and well-loved copy of Brenda’s most favorite book in the world. And when Sharon comes back in with the badge and sidearm, it’s like Brenda is seeing her for the very first time. 

**2\. Flowers**

Fritz’s flowers sit boldly on her conference table, giving this hectic office a much needed burst of color. Another birthday spent at work, another phone call where she’d let him know they’d have to push back their dinner reservations or even better, cancel them all together. Fritz had sounded resigned but not surprised. The flowers are lovely and fragrant and she pushes them down to the end of the table to make space for Captain Raydor who’s coming down to talk about clearing Julio for chasing after a suspect who was a runner and jumping on him so hard that the guy had smashed his face into the pavement and cracked two teeth. When Raydor comes in, she glances at the flowers and hesitates at the door. But Brenda waves her in, tells her to have a seat and Sharon does, scooting as far back as she can while still being able to reach the table. It’s strange, but she’s a strange woman and Brenda doesn’t think much of it until five minutes later when Sharon sneeze three times in a row. Little delicate sneezes. Brenda stares at her, surprised. The first chink in the armor she’s seen in some time. “Allergic to lilies,” Sharon says, finally. Brenda, against her better nature, relents and moves them to the break room. 

**3\. Letters**

Sharon sends emails like old fashioned correspondence. Even though she knows Brenda is always at the other end of her phone or computer, waiting for the bit of information that she’d requested, she still answers Brenda’s quick “ _Can you send me the statistics from last year’s annual report on in-custody incidents of police instigated violence?_ ” with an email that beings, “ _Dear Chief Johnson, I’m happy to fulfill your request at this time. I’ve looked into the matter at hand and have come up with these figures…_ ” And on and on it goes. Paragraphs and a formal signing off and there’s even a postscript for her to let Sharon know if she needs anything else. At first it’s infuriating - she doesn’t have time for a novel! But then she finds herself writing out her replies with better grammar and punctuation and the more polite her emails are, the more helpful Sharon becomes. And then Brenda realizes that if she adds something extra nice like, “ _I liked your suit the other day_ ” or “ _How did your meeting with Chief Pope go?_ ” then Sharon is even more forthcoming and open and willing to give Brenda what she wants, in the end. Until one day she realizes that they have just started exchanging emails for no reason at all. Just long letters asking questions about one another, getting to know each other a little better. And nearly every morning she finds a new one waiting for her and she spends the rest of her day stealing little moments away at her desk to compose her reply, sending it off before heading home for the night. In the morning, opening up her email to see a new note from Captain Sharon Raydor, well, it has somehow become her favorite part of every day. 

**4\. Scarf**

Brenda buys the scarf even though she isn’t sure it’s the right thing to do. But the color reminds her so intensely, so vividly of Captain Raydor that she circles the store three times, trying to talk herself out of it. She buys it anyway. She can kept it for herself if she changes her mind. It’s all rust and orange and reddish brown, like a sunset, just like Sharon Raydor’s hair. How it used to be. The last time she’d seen her was right before she’d gone out on medical disability. Maybe it’s cruel to send her the scarf, maybe it’s too much a reminder of what she’s lost or is going to lose. She doesn’t consider Captain Raydor a vain person, but that hair was certainly a vanity. Brenda had never seen it look anything other than impeccable, had never seen the color fade, had never seen one single strand of gray or roots or anything. It was always, always beautiful. And now it’s falling out. Brenda wraps up the scarf, sends it to work with her husband to give to Lieutenant Flynn to pass along to the Captain. She tucks in a little Get Well Soon card and the whole thing slips her mind after a couple days. But then one Saturday morning, her phone rings and it’s Raydor. She thanks her for the gift, invites Brenda over for lunch. “I have so much free time now,” Raydor says ruefully. Brenda accepts the invitation and all the ones that come after it. 

**5\. Mason Jar**

Emily’s wedding is supposed to be a small, intimate affair but it turns into 150 people on an expensive Napa vineyard. She and Sharon pay for a lot of it, picking up Jackson’s slack when he doesn’t come through with the money, just as Sharon had predicted and budgeted for. It is a really beautiful wedding, but Brenda spends the day feeling out of place. There’s all these things Sharon has to do as Mother-of-the-Bride and even Jackson shows up looking showered and fresh in his tuxedo. She’s just the girlfriend of the mother of the bride and so she spends a lot of the day in an expensive dress, waiting around for Sharon to be done with something so Brenda can drive her to the next thing she has to wait around for. Emily had wanted shabby chic, whatever the hell that means, so now Brenda’s sitting alone at a table drinking wine out of a mason jar and watching, through very narrow eyes, her girlfriend ceremonially dance with her ex-husband. She’s just working herself up into a real fit of mad, too, when Sharon catches her eye and blows her a kiss over Jackson’s chubby shoulder. Well, Brenda thinks. Hard to stay mad at that.


	2. alone again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 ways their first kiss could have gone and one way it did.

**5 ways their first kiss could have gone...**

1\. 

They’re sitting in the backseat of Provenza’s Crown Vic. Andy’s in the driver’s seat and and Provenza is barking out directions. “Left, LEFT, FLYNN!” and then, “Break, break, wait, wait, okay, GUN IT!” 

It is unfortunate that they’d all been in the car when crossing and then joining this high-speed chase. If they catch the guy, where are they gonna put him anyway? Wedge him between her and the Captain? But it’s protocol for all hands on deck and no one was going to let it pass with Raydor in the car. 

Brenda turns to look at her and Sharon turns too, right at the same time, her hand against her window. Andy breaks and turns sharply and Brenda feels herself lunge toward Raydor and they crash, face to face. A sharp pain explodes in her lip and when they screech to a halt, they pull apart. Raydor has a hand to her mouth and wide eyes. 

“Are you all right?” she asks, though it’s muffled. Provenza twists in his seat.

“We lost him - Chief, you’re bleeding! What happened?”

“I cut my lip,” she says, touching her lip gently. Her fingers come away smeared with bright red blood. 

“On what?” Provenza asks. 

“Captain Raydor’s teeth, I think,” she says. Raydor blushes. 

From the driver’s seat, Andy snorts. 

 

2.

The chief is drunk, really drunk. The bartender helps Sharon get Brenda to the door of the bar but no farther. Sharon has to slip a hand around her waist and guide her, though it’s like trying to walk with a sack of cats. 

“But why did you call me?” Sharon mutters, not for the first time.

“Raydor,” Brenda slurs. “Rayyyyy-deeeeerrrrr.” She snorts out an unlady like giggle.

“Chief, hold it together, my car is right over there,” she says. “You smell charming, by the way.”

“I drank… I drank… four… no five… it was called… uh…” Brenda struggles.

“Jägermeister,” Sharon supplies helpfully.

“Yeah!” Brenda crows. “How’d ya know?”

“Because that is what you smell like,” she says. Brenda lurches to the side a little and Sharon tightens her hold. “Whoa, whoa, easy there.”

“Raydor,” Brenda says. “Raydor, call Raydor, call Raydor.”

“You did,” she reassures Brenda. “I’m here, okay? I’m gonna take you home.”

“Noooo,” Brenda manages. “Not home, not home. Can’t take me there, can’t… can’t go there. Can we stop? I need to sit.” 

“No stopping,” Sharon says. “Just a few more steps. You can sit in the car, okay? But if you puke in my car, I’m gonna shoot you.” 

“Oh no,” Brenda says. “Captain Raydor’ll be real mad. 72-hour reporting cycle.” 

Sharon smiles. “That’s right.”

“She always looks good, don’t you think? Raydor?” Brenda hums. “Rayyyderrrr.”

Sharon leans Brenda against the car for support so she can get her keys out of her coat pocket and unlock the car. She’s hears the car beep and then looks up. Brenda is staring at her, her cheeks flushed. 

“Sharon?” Brenda says.

“What?” she sighs. 

“What are you doin’ here?” Brenda asks. 

“You had the bar call me to come get you, Chief. You’ve had a little too much to drink,” Sharon says, trying to sound patient. It’s nearly last call and she’s tired and what kind of woman goes to a bar alone and gets drunk on Jäger? She’s heard the rumors of trouble in paradise; they all witnessed the big fight in Brenda’s office the other day through partially closed, swinging blinds but she didn’t realize how deep Brenda had gotten.

She’s still wondering about it, when Brenda tilts forward and presses her mouth against Sharon’s. Surprise paralyzes her for a moment, the soft lips moving against her own. Brenda’s hand clenched against the lapel of her coat. Sharon finally manages to gather her wits and pull back.

“Chief-”

Brenda leans over and pukes; Sharon jumps back. Well. Better here than in her car and with any luck, Brenda won’t remember any of this in the morning.

 

3.

It’s a bad first date. Possibly the worst. The restaurant has no record of Brenda’s reservation even though she really did make it over a week ago, and they have to wait nearly an hour for a table. By the time they’re seated, they’re both irritable and starving. The kitchen is out of the special, which was the whole reason for coming to this crowded, pricey restaurant and Brenda knows it’s bad when Sharon doesn’t even order wine, says, “Just water, please.”

Then, because dinner took so long, there’s not really time for a movie anyway, and it’s unseasonably cool, so they stand in the parking lot next to Brenda’s car, shivering and indecisive. 

“Maybe you could just take me home?” Sharon says, finally.

“Oh,” Brenda says, miserably. “Okay.” 

All the work, all the tension, all the time it took to get to this point and Brenda had blown it. 

Sharon’s quiet on the drive home, her legs crossed away from Brenda, though she does hum along to the radio, a little. Softly - Brenda’s not sure that Sharon even knows she’s doing it.

When they get to Sharon’s building, there’s no street parking, of course, and Sharon says, “Here’s fine, Brenda, I can just hop out.” She’s already got her hand on the door.

“Goodnight, then,” Brenda says. She almost says that she’d had a nice time, but she’s trying out this new thing where she doesn’t lie unless she absolutely has to and only for work, so she swallows it down and says nothing, instead. Sharon turns back to look at her, unbuckles her seatbelt and swoops in for a quick peck on the lips. Not the car making out Brenda had pictured while getting ready earlier, but it’s not nothing.

“Call me tomorrow, okay?” Sharon says.

“Okay,” Brenda says. 

 

4.

The living room is dark except for the dancing light from the television. Brenda is next to Sharon on the couch, the soft brown blanket draped over both of their laps. Brenda’s been staring intently at the screen since the movie was put on, but she couldn’t tell anyone the plot if her life depended on it. Sharon smells clean and sweet and she keeps shifting. Crossing and uncrossing her legs. Wiggling. _Squirming._

Brenda could use a good squirm herself, but makes herself stay still except for her fingers under the blanket, curling and uncurling and curling just to expend a little nervous energy. Something funny happens on the screen, a pratfall meant to make the man look clumsy and charming. Neither she nor Sharon laugh. 

It’s the longest 95 minutes of her life and when the credits start to roll, they still sit there, Sharon flinching and Brenda still as a statue. She can’t stand it, can’t take another solitary moment so she turns to tell Sharon she’s gonna head home and Sharon turns and opens her mouth to say something at the same time. Brenda stares at her mouth, the scalloped row of white teeth just under her lip, the tip of a wet, pink tongue. 

Oh god, oh god. 

Sharon is coming closer, leaning in, and Brenda shoots a prayer of gratitude up to whatever god is listening because if they can just bring their mouths together, Brenda is gonna be the best person she knows how to be, starting right now, just as long as she gets to kiss her, please god, let them kiss right now. So close, so close…

A key in the door, Rusty’s voice calling, “I’m home! Why is it dark in here?”

Sharon snaps back, fumbling for the remote, silencing the credits, leaping to her feet, smoothing her palms down the thighs of her jeans.

Brenda is officially an atheist. Starting now. 

 

5.

“I’m selfish?” Sharon says, a hand to her chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you!” Brenda shouts across the island of her new kitchen. They’re both hot and tired and have spent the day moving Brenda out of the duplex and into this little rental house. Sharon had gotten the division to come help, even though it’s going to make their next shared case with S.O.B. somewhat complicated and tense. 

“I just spent this whole godforsaken day moving your shit!” Sharon says. “And you have the nerve to call me selfish?” 

“Yes, because you don’t help people just to help them, you do it so you can get somethin’ later,” Brenda accuses. 

“Oh my god, that’s _you_!” Sharon says, so exasperated that she has to laugh. “You’re describing you!”

“Nuh uh,” Brenda says. “You’re the one who said you’d help me move today if I’d help you convince Rusty to transfer to a four year university!”

“Oh my god,” Sharon says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s like you have no concept of even the idea of what friendship is.”

“That ain’t true,” Brenda says, crossing her arms. “I’m a great friend.”

“Great friends don’t take out their imploding marriage on innocent bystanders,” Sharon says. “I’m not selfish, Brenda. I’m just tired. I need to go home to my kid. I can’t stay here with you forever. Part of divorce is figuring out how to be alone again.” 

“You’d know all about that,” Brenda says. But the ire is gone from her voice and she just seems small and desperate. Sharon rolls her eyes, groans, rubs her face. 

“I’m sorry,” Sharon says, though she doesn’t deserve it. “I’m sorry it’s hard.” 

“The divorce is not what’s hard,” Brenda says, leaning onto the island, resting on her elbows. “The divorce is the only thing that makes sense, anymore.”

“What doesn’t make sense?” Sharon asks, leaning forward, mirroring her pose. “Tell me, Brenda. What do you need?”

Brenda pushes herself up onto the counter and says, “Just you, Sharon.” 

Presses her mouth against Sharon’s and doesn’t let up.

**...and one way it did.**

1\. 

Sharon’s got her hand pressed against Brenda’s stomach but she can’t stop the bleeding, there’s so much blood, so much blood. Brenda’s already passed out, her eyes rolled back in her head. The blood on Sharon’s hands is hot, but when she leans over and presses her mouth to Brenda’s, her lips have already gone cold.


	3. almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five things they almost said to each other.

1\. 

Brenda is going to roll out with Sergeant Gabriel, she always rolls out with Sergeant Gabriel. He’s her right hand man, her guide around this sprawling, desert metropolis. She forgets, for a moment, that Captain Raydor is shadowing them today until she shows up with her leather portfolio and her liquid eyeliner winged out so perfectly and her dark lips. 

She opens her mouth to tell her that she can come with her and Gabriel, stands there for too long, maybe, with her mouth hanging open because finally Sergeant Gabriel says, “You can ride with Tao and Sanchez, Captain,” and Raydor nods and walks briskly past them toward the elevator. Gabriel turns to look at her. “What was that?”

“Nothin’!” Brenda says, her eyes on Raydor’s long hair swinging down her back; the sway of her hips in those heels.

 

2.

Sharon is disgusted and disappointed and angry and hurt and mad as hell. It’s bad enough that Brenda didn’t get the job, but Tommy Delk? Of all the people in the running, they gave the job to the only man more bureaucratic than Will Pope. She wants to tell Brenda that she would have made an amazing Chief of Police, that she believes in what Brenda can do if given the resources, that she deserves so much more praise and respect than this force gives her, that she’s never seen someone wear a dress better. 

The only thing she manages is, “I’m sorry, Chief Johnson.”

Brenda rolls her eyes. “Thanks, Captain.”

 

3\. 

Brenda knows that she just left everyone in the lurch because sometimes life happens like that, sometimes grief settles down like a fog and it has settled around her. She’s lost her way. She goes back to Atlanta without Fritz - he stays in L.A. to take care of Joel and keep working. It’s Fritz who emails her that they’ve given Brenda’s division to Raydor. 

It’s surprising - not the transfer, but the realization that Brenda thinks it’s the right move. Who knows Major Crimes better, at this point? She opens her messages and scrolls through to find Sharon’s name. She’s going to tell her congratulations, going to let her know that she can call if she has questions but then, from down the stairs, her father’s gruff voice. “Brenda Leigh? I need you. Come here, please.”

She sets the phone down and hurries down the stairs.

 

4\. 

She calls the house number, hoping Brenda will answer. She’d heard she was back in town - Andrea had mentioned that she’d started the new job this week. So she’s around, she’s close. She’s home. The phone rings and she thinks about what she’s going to say. 

_He doesn’t want me, he only wants you._

She can’t say that. But it’s true, Rusty asks for Brenda all the time like Sharon doesn’t know exactly, exactly how he feels.

“Howard residence, this is Fritz.”

Sharon hangs up. 

 

5.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Brenda says. Sharon looks cool and calm and collected standing on the wide, wooden planks of the floor of this little coffee shop. Brenda had picked one near Sharon’s apartment but it’s a nice choice. Comfy chairs, a whole glass case full of pastries, plenty of light coming in through the windows. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“I can’t stay long,” Sharon says with no trace of apology in her voice. They sit, but Sharon perches like she’s poised to dart out at any moment. It hurts, but it’s fair. Brenda is always the one that runs and leaves Sharon on her own and so why should Sharon trust her? “What is it that you wanted to say to me, Brenda?”

That she’s sorry. That she misses her so much she’s got a permanent ache lodged in her ribs. That she can’t sleep without Sharon, that she doesn’t feel anything anymore except despair. That she’s going to leave Fritz this time, for real, that she wants to be a family with Rusty, that she’s really, really, really sorry and that she promises that she can make this right.

“You look good,” she says instead. Sharon narrows her eyes, unimpressed.


	4. not great at apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [thiswillonlyhurtalittle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thiswillonlyhurtalittle) asked for:
> 
>  
> 
> _5 times Brenda tries to be nice to Captain Raydor. (But GOD, does Sharon still have to be such a bitch?!)_

**1.**

She comes into work Monday and learns immediately about the shit storm that had gone down Saturday night. One officer in the hospital, one suspended pending investigation, two civilians dead. She reads the report on her computer and glances at the clock. She’s been coming in early lately. Waking up in the flat gray of predawn, showering and dressing in the dark closet. Slipping out just before Fritz’s alarm sounds, skipping coffee at home and stopping at Starbuck’s on the way in, instead. It’s not good for her wallet or her waistline, but it’s the silent agreement they’ve made. She’ll leave early, he’ll come home late. 

Weekends are the worst. She prays for a case, sometimes, curses the fact that he works so closely with the LAPD that she can’t just make one up and disappear for a few hours. A few days. She’d even gone grocery shopping yesterday, with a list and everything. A cart, canvas bags from her trunk. She’d taken the time to go down every aisle of that Ralphs and spent over one hundred and thirty dollars, just because the errand ate up time. They’re never home to eat the food, but now they have it.

So it’s early enough now to call to the doughnut shop that stays open entirely due to orders made by police officers. Everyone likes this place because they deliver. She orders two dozen doughnuts and two joe-to-gos of coffee and tells him to throw in a few bran muffins, too. Her phone number must be in their system from previous orders because he says, “9th floor, right?” 

“Oh,” she says. “No, not this time. 11th. Internal Affairs.”

But her phone rings forty minutes later, just as everyone is starting to arrive. Provenza settling into his desk, Buzz in electronics turning everything on for the day. Andy Flynn in a pink and green tie. 

“Chief Johnson,” she says, tucking the phone between her shoulder and her ear. 

It’s the front desk down in the lobby, asking whether or not she is expecting a delivery.

“I’ll just come down and get it,” Brenda says after a few minutes of back and forth. She hangs up the phone, pushes open her office door and clicks out into the murder room. Looks around at her choices - Provenza? No. Andy? It’s Brenda’s understanding that he and the Captain of FID have known each other going on twenty years now. She decides to play it safe and says, “Buzz?” 

Buzz sticks his head into the murder room, surprised at being addressed when they don’t have an active case. 

“Yes, Chief?” he says.

“You got a few minutes for me?” she asks. 

They collect the bounty in the lobby. Brenda over tips the delivery person even though the whole point of having the order delivered was so that Brenda could keep her fingerprints off of everything. Ah well, best laid plans. Buzz holds the coffee, Brenda the bright pink boxes in her arms. She can smell the sweet dough, still warm, the icing. Torture. 

It’s the nice thing about Buzz. He doesn’t ask any questions, just rides up to FID with her in silence. She’s been up here only a few times and only to the outer office. She’s never been invited into the Captain’s office which in her mind is a very good thing. If Brenda’s specialty is closing cases in an interrogation room, then Captain Raydor’s legacy surely will be ending careers in her office. Asking for sidearms and badges. Having uniforms escort disgraced officers out of the building. A job for the greater good, but not one Brenda could stomach. She’ll take a murderer any day.

When they arrive, it’s not the chaos Brenda had pictured. People look tired and overworked, but they’re all at the desks, doing paperwork or whispering into the telephone. Brenda can see that Captain Raydor is there in her office but the door is closed and the blinds obscure details, but not the big picture. She’s speaking to someone and their postures both look grave.

Someone looks up when they come in. Someone Brenda has met before. Elliott, maybe? He looks at her with a wrinkled forehead.

“Y’all have a break room?” she asks. 

“Captain Raydor doesn’t like processed sugar in our break room,” he says, eyeing the pink boxes. It’s obviously a philosophy he doesn’t personally subscribe to, but she respects that he holds the party line. 

“What?” she squawks. Even if the party line is sheer lunacy.

“No sugar,” Buzz says helpfully.

“Just take ‘em, Sergeant,” Brenda says. “And if your Captain Raydor gives you any grief, you just tell her it was courtesy of Major Crimes.” 

They set everything on his desk and don’t wait around long enough to give him time to try to give it back. In the elevator, Brenda crosses her arms and huffs. “No sugar in the break room.” 

“You had a no sugar in the murder room rule once,” Buzz points out. She turns to look at him, betrayed. 

“And I recanted because it was a terribly unfair rule,” she says. “Let us never speak of it again.”

He smirks.

That night, when Brenda is sitting in her car, parked a little down the street from the duplex, screwing up the courage to walk in, her phone buzzes gently in the center console. She looks at the single text.

_Thank you for the muffin._

“And the doughnuts and the coffee,” she adds helpfully, but doesn’t send that along. 

 

**2.**

Brenda gets her hair cut about four times a year. She always makes an appointment when she leaves the salon for eight weeks out, has every intention of keeping it, too, but real life gets in the way and she cancels and reschedules and it’s always a mess. Everything in her life is always a mess.

She makes an appointment on a Sunday, which is unusual. Fritz used to be really adamant about Sundays, about spending at least one day a week together. The only thing that got her out of a Sunday at home or running couple errands was work. 

These days, though... 

She makes an appointment for Sunday knowing it’s probably the only day she’ll be able to keep it and she does. Ten am, a cut and color. She’s only recently been having the color done. Had found a few grays in the unforgiving bathroom light at work and now she doesn’t get the whole thing dyed, but highlights woven in and it looks pretty good. Natural but lighter. It’s nice to feel good about something again, anyway. 

She’s running a teeny, tiny bit late, just five minutes, when she comes into the salon, her hair twisted up high on her head, her sunglasses slipping down her nose. 

“Hi,” she says to the girl behind the counter. “Sorry, sorry, Brenda for Ashley?”

She gives a big old smile, hoping it comes off as charming instead of entitled. 

But when the girl leads her back to the salon chair, Brenda stops. 

“You want some coffee? Water? Champagne?” the girl offers in a monotone voice. She turns around only when she realizes Brenda isn’t right behind her.

There, two seats down from Ashley’s chair. Long crossed legs, perfect posture, and foil in her hair. 

It’s too late to run and anyway, Brenda is no coward. 

Sharon might be though. She sees Brenda in the mirror first, glancing up quickly but not fast enough for Brenda not to see it, and then looks back down at the magazine in her lap. She’s quiet through Ashley coming over to greet Brenda, touching her hair snapping her gum, quiet even through Brenda walking away and coming back with wet hair and water in her ears. 

Ashley walks away for a moment to go mix up the dye and finally Sharon says, without looking up from her _Vogue_ , “Shall we just pretend the other isn’t here?”

“That was my plan,” Brenda says, swallowing down the urge to point out that she’d just ruined it.

“How many hair salons do you think there are in this city?” Sharon asks wistfully. 

“Not enough,” Brenda says. The only way this is at all bearable is that Sharon looks completely ridiculous with her hair slimy and wrapped up in foil. She’s not wearing her glasses, either, so she must be reading that magazine for show. It’d be just a blur in Brenda’s own lap. 

Mostly it’s okay. Mostly Brenda can make small talk with her own stylist. Sharon sits silently - her own girl doesn’t say much either. Sharon’s not real big on small talk anyway, Brenda figures, and maybe she’s been coming here long enough that she’s got this poor girl trained into silence. 

Sharon’s stylist lifts one of the foils and then nods to herself and starts pulling them off. Slowly, Captain Raydor starts to emerge from under that halo of aluminium. Her hair is still slimy and dark with dye but she begins to look a little more like herself. And Brenda is already getting foiled up herself so she doesn’t have a whole lot of room to criticize. 

Then Sharon goes away and comes back with her hair rinsed clean. Sits with her hands on her lap while she gets a blow out, her hair drying shiny and beautiful like an autumn sunset and Brenda allows herself about fifteen seconds of a fantasy world where she dyes her own hair dark and russet and beautiful like a sunset, even though she knows she’d look ridiculous and not elegant and striking. 

When Sharon stands up and reaches for her purse, Brenda blurts, “It looks really good, Captain.”

Sharon glances at her. “Yeah, yours too,” she says before she walks away to pay at the counter. 

Brenda sits there, her scalp burning, and fumes. 

 

 **3.**

Sharon is only being polite because Brenda’s husband left her. It’s not like Brenda doesn’t know that. It’s why everyone has been so nice to her lately. Julio brought her coffee from the cart yesterday morning. Julio who gets so mad that he punches people until his fists are raw and bloody, Julio who speaks to his mother on the phone in tense, rapid Spanish and then has to take a walk to cool down, Julio who didn’t say three words to her for the first month she was here, bought her coffee. Knocked on the door to her office and left it on her desk and told her to have a good day.

“What in the hell…?” she’d wondered out loud, but he was already at his desk and no one even gave him a hard time about it. In fact, Provenza had nodded at him in support. 

It was a mocha, too, more chocolate than coffee and the whipped cream had melted down in there a bit and she wasn’t too good to drink it. 

It’s not like they’re getting a divorce. It’s just a trial. Just a break to see if they can sort some things out. Brenda will stay in Los Angeles, Fritz is on a temporary assignment in D.C. and he can always come back. 

If that’s what Brenda wants.

She can stand the squad tiptoeing around her but when Captain Raydor comes down to her murder room and smiles at her, Brenda stomps her foot and says, “For heaven’s sake, Captain, not you too!” 

Raydor’s face shifts into one of surprise. “Excuse me?”

“What are you doin’ down here anyway?” Brenda says. 

Sharon blinks at her for a long moment and then shakes her head. “Never mind.”

She turns to go.

“Wait, wait,” Brenda says, feeling slightly guilty for snapping but Sharon just waves a hand in the air without turning around and walks away.

Brenda frets about it for about thirty minutes before sighing, slapping her desk and getting up to go find Raydor. Stupid, bossy Raydor who is always making her life harder, always hanging around, always bickering with and expecting the best of Brenda like that isn’t what she already pours into her job day in and day out. Sharon’s floor is quiet and airy. There’s less traffic, less furniture, fewer cartons of backlogged evidence lining the walls of the hallways. They have carpet where Major Crimes has linoleum. The angry sound of Brenda’s kitten heels is dulled into a thud. 

Raydor’s division is familiar enough with Brenda these days that they don’t say anything, don’t stop her from crossing through the room toward Raydor’s office, though she does see someone pick up a phone and dial an extension and when she gets to Raydor’s door, it’s just in time to see the Captain put her handset back into its cradle.

“Chief Johnson,” she says, standing. “What an unexpected surprise.” 

“Stop being nice to me,” she says.

She’d come to apologize, but she’s just not very good at it. 

Raydor dips her chin a little, a brief look of confusion flitting across her face before she manages to say, “I haven’t been one thing or another toward you.”

“Yes,” Brenda says, stepping into the office fully. “You smiled at me.” 

“And you find that offensive?” Raydor asks. 

“Just because my personal life is a mess doesn’t mean I’m going to let my professional one slip, so you don’t have to keep an eye on me!” Brenda says.

Raydor presses her lips together for just a second and then says, “Why don’t you close the door?” 

Brenda turns to see several people bent industriously over their desks. She closes the door. 

“Why did you come down to see me?” Brenda asks. “Did you need something?”

“I just needed the signature of a Deputy Chief or higher and I thought maybe I could make it through the day without seeing Chief Pope,” she says. 

“Oh.” Brenda crosses her arms. “Well, what is it? I can sign it now.” 

“Too late,” she says. “Pope already did.”

“Oh,” Brenda says again. “Sorry.”

There it is. The only apology she’s going to manage to squeak out and they both know it. 

“Did you know that I’m married?” Raydor says.

“I-” Brenda stops. “I guess I didn’t.” 

“When my kids were five and seven, my husband disappeared and was gone for sixteen days. I was beside myself, I filed a missing persons report, I had to take time off work because I had no one to help me with the kids, I thought he was dead in a gutter somewhere. But it turns out he was in Las Vegas because he is a drunk and an addict and that time he’d won enough money to stay on longer and only came home when he ran out of luck.”

Raydor gives her another smile, but it’s not warm like the one before. 

“I told him to stay and be a father or to go for good and he left,” Raydor says. “But this job was easier for a married woman than a single mother doing what she could and now look at me.” 

Brenda wrings her hands together, unsure of what to do or say or why in the world Raydor is opening up to her at all. 

“Chief, you’re a smart lady so I’m going to give you some advice I learned the hard way,” Raydor says. “No one gives a shit about your personal life if you’re a good cop.” 

Brenda can feel her mouth open in surprise. 

“Now, I promise not to smile at you or ask you any favors for the rest of the day,” Raydor says and looks back down at her paperwork.

Brenda lets herself out, mad and sad and offended and feeling ever so slightly better, actually. 

 

**4.**

Brenda leaves work early, stops by the dry cleaners to pick up the vintage green dress with the little cap sleeves and the crisscrossed bodice. The one they’d seen on a mannequin downtown in the window of one of Brenda’s favorite second hand stores. It had fit her perfectly, no alterations needed and so she’d splurged a little for something she wouldn’t bother to wear to work. Not with a skirt so full. 

Green isn’t really one of her colors, not this dark anyway, but Sharon had really liked it. 

She puts up her hair, leaves a few pieces free to frame her face and curls them with a hot iron so they hold their shape all night. She even puts on a liquid liner because Sharon says it smudges less than a pencil and Brenda has been practicing, trying to get faster and more steady with her application. 

Nude heels because Sharon will probably wear black and she doesn’t want to compete and then she drives over to pick Sharon up. 

It’s just the first time she’s going to meet either of Sharon’s children and she wants to make a good impression, wants to be charming and sweet and show Sharon’s son that she’s good enough for his mama and that this isn’t just some midlife crises they’re embarking on together. That what she and Sharon are trying to build is a life on a solid foundation. Something that’ll stay standing even after a few shakeups. 

But when Sharon opens the door, her expression changes into one of shock and she says, “What on _Earth_ are you wearing? Brenda! We’re going to get burgers and you look like Doris Day!”

So much for good impressions. 

 

**5.**

Brenda sends flowers when Rusty graduates from college and then again when Sharon gets promoted to Commander. She sends birthday cards and Christmas cards and once she even calls Sharon’s house line only to find she’d finally gotten rid of it. 

Brenda’s not brave enough to call the cell and all the phones in the murder room have caller ID. 

Brenda knows what kind of person Sharon is. Kind and generous and warm. Punctual and precise. 

But not, in this case, forgiving. 

Brenda wouldn’t forgive herself for what she’d done either, but still. When April rolls around, she buys a birthday card and sends it off anyway. Because she’s sorry, she’s sorry, she’s so, so sorry.


	5. let me hear your body talk (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [sarken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sarken) asked for: _Terribly cracky, but please to be considering Brenda/Sharon bodyswap? I mean, the clothing situation alone…_

There are things that Brenda has trouble believing in - pedophiles and murderers and anyone who hurts children for their own pleasure. Why anyone would wear all black in a city as hot and sunny as Los Angeles. How on earth people can stay married for forty years, even good people like her own parents. 

But some things are easier to believe than they seem. Some things you’re just raised up believing in. Santa Claus. Wishing on a star. Brenda’s mother had always tossed spilled salt over her left shoulder and Brenda had too until one day she decided it was silly and didn’t. The next time she’d gone to the dentist she’d had three cavities after a lifetime of falling asleep with chocolate melting in her mouth and having perfect teeth. 

Salt went back over her shoulder and she stayed cavity free.

So some things were believable because they just were, explained or not. 

When Brenda wakes up to find Sharon Raydor’s reflection staring back at her in the mirror, the idea of not believing didn’t occur to her because here she is. It's happening. Best to just accept it and move right along.

She picks up the unfamiliar handset on the unfamiliar nightstand next to the unfamiliar bed and calls Sharon only to hear the tinkly ring of a cellular phone coming from the other room. She rolls her eyes at herself (Sharon’s eyes?) and realizes that she needs to call herself, so that’s what she does only to hear her husband answer with a groggy “Hello?”

“Fritz!” she says and then tries to correct. “Agent Howard this is, uh, Captain Raydor.”

“Uh,” Fritz says. What time is it anyway. Early? It must be because Fritz is usually up before she is. There’s no accounting for someone else’s internal clock. Sharon would be an early riser, Brenda thinks. What does she do? Yoga? Run the neighborhood? Swim laps? She moves to the closet in the front hall and sees a pale blue yoga mat rolled up against the wall. Ha. Predictable. 

“Sorry, sorry, but I so desperately need to speak to your lovely wife.” Brenda closes the door to the closet and moves to the kitchen where the ringing had come from. Sharon’s cellphone on the counter, 1 missed call from DC Johnson. Really? Didn’t even merit a first name? 

“I think she’s indisposed at the moment, Captain, can I have her call you back?” Fritz says. The clock on the microwave says it’s just after six and she knows his alarm is gonna go off in ten minutes anyway so she’s not real sympathetic. 

“Dispose her,” she snaps in Sharon’s clipped, low voice. “Trust me.” 

“Okay,” Fritz says uncertainly. “Just a moment please.”

Sharon has holed herself up in the bathroom, Brenda can tell by the tenor of the knock. Brenda had woken up alone in an unfamiliar apartment but Sharon had woken up in someone else’s marriage bed with someone else’s husband. Sharon should count herself lucky that their bed has been a frosty place lately. 

Brenda hears something muffled and then Fritz say, “It’s Sharon Raydor. She’s insisting, Bren.”

Brenda tenses. Bren is never good, not from Fritz’s mouth. It means he’s tired and impatient. It means he’s going to put on the facade of being very patient and understanding while instead jumping down her throat with no warning over small issues that shouldn’t matter. The lid on the toothpaste. A cold, wet filter in the coffee maker. Certainly not life and death.

There’s some more muffled sounds and then her own voice, “Hello?”

“Sharon?” Brenda says.

“Brenda?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Well, that answers one burnin’ question I had.” 

“Oh my god, what the hell?” Sharon says. 

“Well, I’m no expert but I think it probably had to do with that old lady yellin’ at us yesterday,” Brenda says. 

Brenda had learned a new life lesson yesterday. Don’t interview suspects with Captain Raydor. Don’t go into suspicious looking new age shops and bicker in front of suspects. Especially if one of the suspects is an old fortune teller with lines in her face so deep it’s like looking into the past. Especially if the suspect has limited English skills and starts shouting at you both in some language Brenda cannot even begin to place. Especially if the room starts filling with such acrid smelling smoke that you both have to run out coughing, eyes watering so badly that it ruins your makeup. 

“I told you to let me take the lead but you just couldn’t,” Sharon says. 

“It’s my case!”

“Just because you’re the lead investigator doesn’t mean you have to micromanage every single aspect… you know what? Save it. What are we going to do about… this?”

“Well, you should probably get out of there,” Brenda says. 

“What am I supposed to do about… you know… him?” Sharon asks. 

“Tell him you got called in, obviously.” Brenda rolls her eyes, starts nosing around the kitchen for coffee. 

“Why would I call you for a Major Crimes case?” Sharon says. 

“Oh don’t start pulling loose strings, Captain,” Brenda says. “Part of effective lying is leaving things vague and getting out before someone can start askin’ questions.”

“I assume you’re at my place?” Sharon says, sounding tired. 

Brenda looks around. “Did you at one time in your life buy a rust colored couch with weird metal studs and think, yes. This is a good idea?” Brenda asks eying the offensive piece of furniture with some disdain. She hopes it is at least more comfortable than it looks but her hopes aren’t high and oh lord, the chairs match. 

Sharon sighs. “So far the most unsettling thing about this is my voice with your accent,” Sharon says and hangs up.

“Rude,” Brenda mutters. 

Sharon sleeps in a nightgown like her mama and she thinks, okay, probably real clothes first and then maybe she can poke around for breakfast. Should she shower? She swallows, steps back into the bedroom on through to the bathroom and turns on the light. Really looks in the mirror. When she’d woken up, it had taken a while to figure out exactly what was happening and finding Sharon’s glasses on the nightstand had been half the battle. Brenda needs her own reading glasses to see paperwork but Sharon depends on hers for everything it seems. Brenda slides the frames down and looks over them at the blurry reflection before pushing them back up with a hard shove. 

“This is so weird,” she says, Sharon’s low voice filling the small bathroom. She sticks out her tongue, gathers all that dark hair up and holds it back, twisting her neck to get a good look at Sharon’s profile. 

Even in an old lady nightgown with no make up, Sharon is pretty. There’s no denying it. It irks Brenda. It always had. Sharon is a distraction that Brenda never needs and has been popping up more and more in her life. In her dreams, lately, too. 

Well, it’s gonna have to happen eventually, Brenda figures. May as well be now. She gathers the nightgown and pulls it up over her head, upsetting the glasses along the way. She has to straighten them on her face again and smooth down her hair. 

She’s got freckles all over. A light dusting of them across her shoulders, down her arms that are covered with goosebumps in the cool bathroom air, across the tops of her breasts. Her light nipples pucker and she feels herself lift her hands to cup them. 

They’re the perfect size. Brenda hopes Sharon appreciates what perfect breasts she has.

Bitch. 

Her legs feel extraordinarily long as she gazes down at them, past the graying thatch of dark hair between her thighs. She turns around and twists to get a look at the back side.

“Yoga,” Brenda says again, shaking her dark hair. “Sharon goddamn Raydor.” 

She walks through the bedroom nude, pulling open drawers until she finds panties and bras. She pulls out a nude colored one and looks at the tag. 34C. Slips it on and fastens it in the back, steps into some underwear and runs her hands down across her belly. This is the only area where she seems less than perfect. 

This body has carried two children after all. 

She doesn’t know anything about Sharon’s children past the fact that they exist somewhere, out in the world. She looks around for pictures but there’s none to be found in the bedroom. Sharon doesn’t seem all that sentimental going off of just her bedroom. Brenda doesn’t find this to be a fault, though, more a pleasant surprise because she’s not particularly sentimental herself. Oh, sure, about silly things like purses and pillowcases, but she’s not, generally, a sap. 

The rest of the drawers seem to contain socks and pajamas and a few ratty t-shirts so she abandons the dresser for the closet. 

Sharon is the type of woman who hangs her jeans. She pulls a pair off the hanger and steps into them but they stop at her hips and Brenda knows that even if she managed to shimmy into them, they’ll never button.

So even someone as pretty as Sharon still hangs onto her skinny jeans. She looks at the inside of the waistband and sees that these are a size two, so she looks at the other pairs until she finds a four and pulls them off their hanger. These come on much easier - they button and everything. Most of the clothes are dark, grays and blacks and some jewel tones, but there’s a pretty sea green button down, so she puts that on, amazed to see that the buttons don’t strain or gap at the bust.

“34C,” Brenda says, shaking her head. “That bitch can buy bras anywhere.” 

In the bathroom, she looks through drawers and the cabinet behind the mirror. Sharon’s toothbrush and a stick of deodorant - she manages a swipe under each arm without taking off the shirt again and then puts it away and wets down the toothbrush. It feels wrongly intimate to use someone else’s toothbrush but she figures she’s using someone else’s mouth too. 

She brushes out all that hair and then gathers it, reaching instinctively for the hairband she always keeps on her wrist only to find both wrists bare. “Right,” she says, “Right.” Digs through some drawers and finds only a plastic clip. 

Brenda must have a hundred different hair elastics lying around every nook and cranny of her life - office, car, home, they’re everywhere because life is intolerable when she can’t find one and Sharon doesn’t have a single one anywhere? Not even a rubber band. She clips her hair back and scowls at the reflection. 

She’s managed to get coffee brewing and eat half a banana when she hears someone turn the handle and try to push open the locked door. There’s a pause and then a hard knock. 

She looks through the peephole to see the top of a blonde head. Turns the dead bolt and opens the door to see herself looking all kind of out of sorts. Her hair is a frizzy mess for one.

“Did you brush it?” Brenda blurts. 

“What?” Sharon says, obviously weirded out by looking at herself. 

“Never brush curly hair,” Brenda says. “Step one in being me.”

“I don’t want to be you,” Sharon says, elbowing her way into the condo. “This is temporary I hope.” 

“Yeah,” Brenda says. “Well, come on in, I guess.”

“You guess? It’s my house!” Sharon scowls. 

“This is weird,” Brenda says. 

But something has changed in Sharon’s expression. She’s stopped scowling at Brenda and instead is looking at her intently. 

“What?” Brenda says, crossing her arms. 

“You,” Sharon says. “You… you like me.”

“What?” Brenda says. 

“When I look at you, your body… lights up like the damn electrical parade!” Sharon says, and Brenda gets what she’s saying about hearing your own voice with the wrong accent. It sounds like an affectation. “When I look at you… I feel… uh…”

“Never mind that,” Brenda says, embarrassed now. “It’s not… it’s just a weird reaction. It’s just physical. It doesn’t mean anything.” 

“It’s very distracting,” Sharon says, taking a step back. She’s put together an outfit that, though technically comprised of all Brenda’s own clothing, she’d never have put together for herself. Gray slacks, a white shirt with a black sweater. It’s boring. Black shoes, too. 

“Trust me, it doesn’t mean I like you,” Brenda says. “It just means I have two eyes and can see you.” 

“I didn’t know you were attracted to women, is all,” Sharon says, crossing her own arms to mirror Brenda’s uncomfortable pose.

“I’m not,” Brenda says. “Usually.” 

“Oh,” Sharon says. 

“It’s not anything you have to worry about,” Brenda says. 

“It is when I’m squatting in your body,” Sharon mutters. “Do you always… is it always like this?” 

“Like what?” Brenda asks.

“So immediate,” Sharon says. “So… instant.”

“I don’t know, Captain, I really try not to think about it.” Brenda is saved by the coffee maker beeping. “Okay, I think we have to go back to that shop and try to talk to that woman again.” 

“Yeah,” Sharon agrees absently. 

“You should shower first,” Brenda says, pouring two mugs of coffee.

“Why?” Sharon asks. 

“Because you can’t go out in public like that, you look ridiculous.” Brenda waves her hand toward Sharon’s head. “The friz, Captain.”

“Can’t I just put it up?” Sharon says. 

“It’s kind of too late for that-”

“Chief Johnson we are in the wrong bodies, how are you concerned about hair?” Sharon says, stomping her foot. 

“Look,” Brenda says. “Say we don’t get out of this right away? People are gonna… we’re gonna have to manage each other’s lives for awhile.” 

Sharon’s eyes flicker to the floor.

“How did it go with Fritzi this morning?” Brenda demands. 

“He was… I mean, fine, I think,” Sharon says. “He didn’t… he trusts you.” 

Brenda knows what that means. She says she’s getting rolled out; he doesn’t question it anymore. Watches her go with dark eyes, doesn’t wait up for her return when she stumbles in after dark, showering off the stench of the morgue, scrubbing dirt off her shoes. She stands in the kitchen eating hot, buttered toast sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar over the sink and then comes to bed and he doesn’t roll over against her anymore. 

“Come on,” Brenda says, more softly. “I can fix your hair and we can work on droppin’ your hard g’s.” 

“And you can work on picking them back up again,” Sharon says. 

oooo

The new age shop of yesterday is an empty store front today. Brenda presses her face against the window to see if anything remains while Sharon, small and blonde and tense, leans against the car. 

“Okay,” she says.

“This ain’t good,” Brenda frets.

“Isn’t,” Sharon corrects. “And obviously. So we contact the landlord to see if they’ve left a forwarding address.” 

“That’s a dead end and you know it,” Brenda says, trying the door one more time. 

“We’ve got to try,” Sharon says. 

“We need to talk to someone who knows about this kind of stuff,” Brenda says, taking a picture of the For Lease sign with her cellphone and marching back to the car. 

“This kind of stuff,” Sharon says, uneasily. “Well, this city is covered with new age shops. Find another one. We can at least get some advice.”

“Yeah,” Brenda says. They’d scuffled over who was going to drive but Brenda had given in because she knows how Type A Sharon can be and anyway, if they run into anyone around town, at least it’ll look like Brenda is the one driving. For whatever that’s worth. 

Brenda searches new age shops on Sharon’s phone. They’d swapped for a while, but after they’d each gotten phone calls from their division, despite calling in, they’d both agreed to switch back. The right phone with the right body so at least if they answer it, the voice will match up. But it’s an unfamiliar model to Brenda and she’s struggling to read the small text.

“You need bifocals, Captain,” Brenda says. 

“No I don’t,” Sharon mutters. 

Parting with her tote bag has been harder to manage and it is currently sitting at her feet next to Sharon’s more demure brown handbag. She rummages through it and finds a hair elastic. Crowing with success, she slips it onto her wrist and then finds her reading glasses, holds them in front of Sharon’s glasses and peers down at the phone. 

“Okay, there’s one called Spellbound Sky in Silverlake,” Brenda says. “Have you thought about Lasik?” 

Sharon just sighs and moves into the right hand turn lane , flicking on her turn signal hard. 

“I bet the city health insurance will cover it,” Brenda says.

“If we don’t solve this, they’re going to be your eyes,” Sharon says. 

Brenda knows this tone. “Maybe some lunch, too,” she says. “You sound like your blood sugar is getting low.” She takes the hair clip out and tosses it into the black tote bag, gathers up Sharon's hair into a pony tail and secures it with a sigh. Better. 

Sharon just hums low in her throat, irritated. Brenda is pleased to note that it’s not nearly so scary coming from her own body. She thinks momentarily about what Sharon had said earlier, about Brenda’s body lighting up like a parade. She glances sideways at Sharon, at her own blonde hair pinned tightly back, the black sweater, her hands tight on the wheel. Does Sharon’s body react?

Maybe she’s a little warmer than usual. But that could be anything. That could be the weather or the unfamiliar terrain or the tight jeans in the hot car.

She shifts. 

It could be nothing at all.

oooo

Spellbound Sky smells like a Grateful Dead concert and they have to walk through two separate beaded curtains before finding someone perched on a wooden stool behind a counter. 

It’s a woman with long, graying hair in a flowy, patterned dress. She smiles at them as they enter but the smile starts to fade.

“I’m… Deputy Chief Brenda Johnson,” Sharon says.

“Brenda Leigh Johnson,” Brenda corrects.

“Brenda Leigh Johnson,” Sharon says. “This is Captain Raydor.” 

“You can call me Sharon,” Brenda says. 

“I’m Summer,” the woman says. “Welcome. Is there something I can do for the police today?”

“Uh,” Brenda says. “We actually wanted to ask you about…” 

“Soul transportation?” The woman offers when Brenda doesn’t seem to come up with anything.

“How did you…?” Sharon asks. 

“Your auras,” Summer says. “They’re all out of sorts. Bleeding together quite a bit and… it’s like going against the grain. Uncomfortable for me to see so it must be quite disconcerting for you.” She smiles. “Let me get Tobias down here to mind the register and we can go upstairs and have some tea.” She reaches under her counter and a few moments later, a man emerges. He smiles at the women and then squints.

“Oh no,” he says, looking at them sadly.

“I’m going to take them into the back,” Summer says. “See if we can’t help them get things back to normal.”

“Good luck,” Tobias says. 

Brenda and Sharon follow Summer through a third beaded curtain and up a narrow flight of stairs into a small apartment. 

“I prefer hot tea, would that be all right?” Summer asks.

“Just fine, thank you,” Brenda says. They have a seat on the small sofa. 

“Ma’am, how-” But Brenda elbows Sharon and shakes her head.

“Have some tea, Sharon,” she says. 

“Ah,” Summer says, smiling as she fills the kettle. “So you’re the Captain and you are Brenda Leigh Johnson.” She turns on the burner of her small stove and sets the kettle on it.

“How do we undo it?” Sharon says, before Brenda can stop her. The woman has absolutely no finesse. 

“Well,” Summer says. “I suppose that depends on how you got this way. Spell gone wrong?”

“We don’t practice,” Sharon says. Brenda raises her eyebrows at her. 

“Cursed artifact?” Summer asks.

“A hex, I think,” Sharon says. “A psychic down on Venice Boulevard we were speaking to about a case.”

“Well,” Summer says, pulling three mugs from the cupboard and setting a basket of tea on the coffee table in front of them. “They’re easier to break if it’s something you’ve done to yourselves. Have you spoken to the psychic that cursed you?”

“Gone,” Brenda says.

“Yes,” Summer says as the kettle starts to whistle. “Most people who cast something like that don’t tend to stick around to see the damage. Always trying to outrun the backlash of their misdeeds.”

She pours steaming water into three mugs and carries two over to the women. Brenda chooses a spicy orange tea, Sharon a chamomile and they drop their bags into their water. 

“Is it something we can break ourselves?” Sharon asks. 

Summer cants her head. “I guess that depends. Sometimes it’s something that simply needs to play out until the end. But if you can’t wait to see how that may be, I’d say you need a coven.”

Sharon sips her tea and then makes a face.

“What?” Brenda says. 

“I usually like chamomile,” she mutters.

“I don’t,” Brenda says. “Swap with me.” 

Sharon hesitates just for a moment but then sets her mug down and takes Brenda’s out of her hand. Brenda picks up the chamomile tea, slurps at it. It’s not bad. Not at all how she remembers it tasting. 

Summer smiles at her. 

“Covens only work if you trust them,” she says softly. “And trust each other.” 

Sharon sips at the spicy tea and hums. 

“I can put you in contact with someone local,” Summer offers hesitantly. “But if you have your own resources, that might work better for you.” 

“Is this permanent?” Brenda blurts, worried now. “Do you think that’s a possibility?”

“I don’t think anything is permanent,” Summer says gently. “Perhaps this will turn out to be a good experience for you? Hexes are funny things.” She set down her mug. “I’ll write down that information for you.”

“Oh,” Sharon says. “Don’t bother.”

oooo

They sit in the car on the street and this time Brenda is behind the wheel.

“Well,” Sharon says.

“Well,” Brenda parrots.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” 

“For you to tell me why you turned down her help,” Brenda says. “You have a lot of coven friends? Big into the witch scene?” 

Sharon rolls her eyes. 

“Are you a witch, Sharon Raydor? Because that little drawing Provenza made of you on our murder board is starting to seem less like a joke and more like a premonition!” 

“No!” Sharon says. “I’m not a witch.”

Brenda sniffs. “Good.”

“My sister is,” Sharon offers after a long pause. 

“What?” Brenda demands. 

“Obviously, I don’t like to talk about it,” Sharon says. “But I think we have to go see her.” 

Brenda twists the key in the ignition. “Fine. Where we goin’?”

“She lives in Sedona,” Sharon says. “We’re not… particularly close.” 

“Arizona,” Brenda says. “Jesus hopscotchin’ Christ.”

“Not ideal,” Sharon concedes. 

“We’re gonna have to sort a few things out, first,” Brenda mutters. Her husband and their divisions and she’s gonna have to cook up something pretty convincing for Will, too, to let them just disappear for a few days midweek. Should they tell Will? Would he understand?

Strange things happen all the time in this city. 

“Whatever you're thinking, no,” Sharon says. 

“I'm not thinkin’ anything,” she mutters. 

“Yes you are, I can see it on my own face. You want to tell Agent Howard? Chief Pope? No way.”

“We have to tell someone,” Brenda says. “We gotta have someone running interference for us on this end of things.”

“I'm not sure that's a good idea,” Sharon frets, reaching up and tugging on a curly lock of blonde hair that has worked its way free. 

“I'm taking us home,” Brenda says decisively and puts the car into gear. “We have to tell Fritzi something. Maybe one of your cases is taking us out of state?”

“Oh sure,” Sharon snorts. “That happens all the time in Internal Affairs. I often oversee other forces completely outside the jurisdiction of the LAPD.”

“I can't take much more of you bein’ such a snot,” Brenda warns. “I know you have a brain in there, maybe you could start using it to help us.”

Sharon is silent, pouting for a moment. “Fine. We could tell your husband that one of your suspects got extradited to Arizona and you have to go testify there?”

Brenda shakes her head, her red ponytail flipping around behind her. “He’ll want to know what case and there’s no way I wouldn’t fight tooth and nail to drag them back to California so we could try ‘em here.” 

“Of course you would-”

“You just tell him that I’m having a personal emergency and you need to go with me,” Brenda says, pulling out into traffic. “Keep it vague.”

“Why on earth would I take _you_ with me to do anything personal?” Sharon demands. 

“Because we’re in the wrong damn bodies, Sharon!” Brenda says, stopping too hard at a light and they both pitch forward a little. “Look, it doesn’t matter why, you’ve just got to sell it.”

“I might be in your tiny body but I’m not you in here.”

“I’ll help,” Brenda assures her. “And I still think we gotta tell someone.”

“Who would believe us?” Sharon mutters.

“Detective Sanchez,” Brenda says. “I think he’s the best choice.” She waits for Sharon to complain about that, too but she just shifts in the passenger’s seat and sighs.

“All right.” 

“Okay so we’ll go, we’ll pack a bag and take care of Fritz, and then get some sleep at your place and leave in the morning?”

“You don’t think we should leave tonight?” Sharon asks. 

“I think we could both use at least a few hours of sleep,” Brenda says.

Sharon crosses her arms. 

Fritz isn’t even home when they get there and Brenda feels relieved, though she knows it’ll be harder for Sharon to convince Fritz over the phone than it would’ve been with both of them there in person. She reaches into the purse on her shoulder for her house keys before she realizes they’re in her tote that Sharon is carrying. 

“Let me,” Sharon says dryly and then rummages for a moment saying, “How do you find anything in here?” Though she does pull the keys out and hands them over so Brenda can unlock the door with the correct one.

“You get used to it,” Brenda says. The cat meows and she says, “Hi Joel!” but he runs past her to rub up against Sharon’s legs. 

“Hmm,” Sharon says. “He’s clingy.” 

Still, she reaches down to offer him a few pets.

“You’re probably a dog person,” Brenda says. 

“No,” Sharon says smirking. “Just allergic.”

Brenda sneezes three times before they make it to the bedroom to pack a bag. 

Brenda writes a note and leaves it on the kitchen table.

 _I’ll be fine, we can talk about it when I get home,_ she writes and signs it with a _B_. 

oooo

It’s weird and uncomfortable at the condo. Brenda is tired and she can tell Sharon is too because she’s starting to get that pinched look between her eyes that Brenda gets when she’s starting to run real low on sleep. Sharon offers to make them dinner and Brenda tells her it’s fine, they can just order take-out and Sharon rolls her eyes and makes dinner anyway. 

“And then I’ll help you pack a bag,” she says.

“I can pack a bag without you,” Brenda says.

“And yet I have three floral skirts in my bag that you insisted I bring,” Sharon points out. “And you managed to find the brightest shirt I own.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Brenda says. “You look good in color, Sharon. You should try it now and then.”

Sharon clears her throat, flushes red and turns away. 

“Sorry,” Brenda says.

“I just… it’s difficult to reconcile is all,” Sharon says after a moment, after she’s run cold water over her wrists and hands. “You’re always so awful to me but when I look at you…”

“I know,” Brenda says.

“How do you get anything done with this libido?” Sharon asks and then chuckles uncomfortably. “That’s rhetorical, by the way. Please don’t answer.”

“You know… I don’t mind,” Brenda says. “It might be my body but you’re the one living in it so if you need to take… care of things while you’re in there, I won’t hold it against you.” 

Sharon stares at her, her mouth hanging open. “Jesus!”

“I’m just saying!” Brenda says. 

“Is that what you’ve been doing in my body?” Sharon asks. 

“No,” Brenda says calmly. “I mean, I did look at it.”

“What?”

“I was curious,” Brenda says. “You mean you haven’t? How did you get dressed? Have you even showered?”

Sharon rolls her eyes. “I can put on a bra without looking down, Chief Johnson.”

“I’d rather you see me naked than not shower,” Brenda says, though it’s more of a mutter. 

“Can we talk about something else, please?”

“I’ll go pack,” Brenda says. “You can have final say.”

“Fine,” Sharon says. 

“Fine,” Brenda says. 

She’s still gonna pack that red cocktail dress, just to annoy her. Still, what does one pack to put on a borrowed body to go see a witch?

Brenda locks herself in the bathroom and stares in the mirror. She still startles at the reflection, at the glasses and the dark hair and the round nose, round cheeks, round face.

She pulls out the elastic and shakes out her hair. 

Does this body react to Brenda Leigh Johnson? She turns on the cold tap and sticks her wrists under there.

She’s starting to think that it does.


	6. let me hear your body talk (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Brenda,” Sharon says, reaching out. Her hand hovers just above Brenda’s borrowed elbow. “It’s going to be okay.”

“So…” Detective Sanchez says. “Wait, what?”

“Listen, I know it’s early, but I need you to dig in here, Julio,” Brenda says, reaching out and touching his elbow. He looks down at Sharon’s hand touching him and stares at it for a long moment before looking back up at Brenda. She takes her hand away. “We went to talk to the suspect, his grandmother was there, she hexed us. Now I’m her and she’s me.”

“Uh… huh…” Sanchez says, glancing at Sharon. Like she’s going to step in and save them. They’re standing in his living room, he’s in a bathrobe. Sharon’s personal car is packed, they’re going to leave straight from here and head for Arizona. But they’re not going anywhere if they can’t get Sanchez on their side.

“Listen,” Brenda says. “Why on earth would someone like Captain Raydor go along with something like this if we were just prankin’ you?”

Sanchez smiles. “I gotta say, you do the accent well, Captain.”

“This was a waste of time,” Sharon says. “I told you we shouldn’t have told anyone.”

“We just need you to help things run smoothly while we’re gone,” Brenda says. “You know, lie to Pope if he comes sniffin’ around.”

“Brenda, there’s absolutely no reason you can’t take personal days and Chief Pope is not allowed to sniff around if you’re not breaking any rules, which you aren’t,” Sharon says. “I don’t know what you have to make everything so complicated all the time. If you’d just do things by the book instead of trying to-”

“Okay, okay,” Sanchez says. “I believe you!” 

Sharon smiles at her, a smug look she doesn’t care for on her own face. 

“Good,” Brenda says. “That’s somethin’.”

“My great-aunt was cursed by a bruja once and she was never the same,” he says solemnly. 

“It’s not a curse, it’s a hex, and we’re going to get it taken care of,” Sharon sniffs. 

Detective Sanchez finally cracks, grinning at Brenda, peering at her as if she’d grown another head. 

“How does it feel to be tall, Chief?” he asks.

“She’s barely taller!” Brenda exclaims. “I haven’t even hardly noticed at all!” 

“Okay,” he says, though it sounds dismissive at best, like he doesn’t really believe her. “How long are you gonna be gone?”

“Hard to say,” Sharon says. “I hope not more than a few days.”

“You hope?” Brenda says, turning on her now. “She’s going to know how to fix this right?”

“Maybe,” Sharon says. “It’s not like she is just gonna wave her wand and say Abracadabra backwards. It’s a practice. It’s a discipline. And it’s always harder to clean up someone else’s mistakes.”

“You would know, Captain,” Sanchez says, traitorously. Sharon cracks a smile at him. Brenda just hates them both.

“I have my phone - well, I have Sharon’s phone,” Brenda says. “We have our phones. Please call me if you have problems.”

“We won’t have problems,” Julio promises. “Nothing we can’t handle. What happens if your sister doesn’t know how to fix it?”

“Don’t,” Sharon says. “Don’t. She will. She’s got to.”

Can Brenda just be Sharon forever? The condo alone and the Prada shoes she could get used to but, not Internal Affairs and certainly not having two children. And she’d miss things - her murder room, her meddling parents, her nieces and nephews. 

“Brenda,” Sharon says, reaching out. Her hand hovers just above Brenda’s borrowed elbow. “It’s going to be okay.” But she doesn’t touch her. 

“I know,” Brenda says, forcing a bright and cheery smile on her face. Detective Sanchez recoils slightly at the sight of it. 

oooo

Brenda concedes the driver’s seat because it’s Sharon’s car. They’re not allowed to take the city cars across state lines and while Brenda would be more comfortable in a car that other law force could recognize as one of their own, she’s learned to pick her battles with Sharon in regards to the rules.

Sharon’s personal car is a small SUV and Brenda likes it. It can do most of the things Fritz’s can but isn’t a huge gas guzzler, she doesn’t feel like she’s sitting too high above everyone. Sharon is a careful driver, though she at least drives faster than the speed limit. There’s not much to see once they hit the 10 headed toward Palm Springs. 

“I’ve lived here nearly seven years and I barely ever leave Los Angeles,” Brenda says, breaking a stretch of silence that was nearly forty-five minutes long. She sees Sharon tense for a moment. She’s wearing Brenda’s body, Brenda’s floral skirt and navy blue sweater but they had swapped sunglasses and so Brenda’s own face is now mostly covered by Sharon’s huge, dark sunglasses. 

“You work a lot,” Sharon says. An observation, mostly. At least, it doesn’t sound like an accusation.

“It’s kind of pretty out here,” Brenda says.

“Mmm,” Sharon says. “Joshua Tree. Some people think there is mystical energy here.”

“Maybe just driving through it will fix us and we can turn around,” Brenda says.

“Ha. Wouldn’t that be nice?” Sharon says. “They say the same thing about Sedona.”

“What do you think?”

“I think places are places and people see what they want to see,” Sharon says. “But that was before… all of this. You never know, I guess.”

“I guess not,” Brenda says. 

“It could be worse, I suppose,” Sharon says.

“How?”

“We could have swapped with a man,” Sharon says grimly. “Imagine waking up with-”

“Good Lord,” Brenda says. “I hadn’t thought.”

“At least with you, nothing seems so out of place,” Sharon says. “Thought I’ve got to say, I’m not used to having so much… decolletage.”

Brenda snorts, glancing over at Sharon. She has been wearing higher necklines, especially considering how warm it’s been. The digital display in Sharon’s car says it’s already in the high 80s and they haven’t even hit noon yet. 

“I felt like I woke up one day when I was 12 and I’d grown hips and breasts overnight,” Brenda says. “I have three brothers, it wasn’t an easy year.”

“Hmm,” Sharon says. “Yes, you have faint stretch marks on your hips.”

“So you finally looked, eh?” Brenda says, feeling a flush of heat. She reaches out and adjusts the vent so the cold air blows more directly on her.

“I honestly, honestly don’t know how you maintain this,” Sharon says, never looking away from the road. “I feel like I’m always starving and all I want to eat is garbage.”

Brenda laughs and it comes out low and throaty. “I don’t think I’ve had a bite of chocolate since I’ve been you.”

“Yeah, I don’t really have much of a sweet tooth.”

“I have never believed a single person who has ever told me that,” Brenda says. “But I get it now. You just don’t even think about it, do you?”

“I’ll eat it if it is in front of me, but I don’t usually seek it out, no,” Sharon says. “God, I could use something right now, though.”

Brenda smiles, reaching down into her tote and pulls out a silver wrapped chocolate snack cake. 

“I always have one for emergencies,” Brenda says. She holds it out but Sharon hesitates. “You’ll feel better. It will help… it helps with, uh, the other thing.”

“You mean the constant horniness?” Sharon snaps, reaching out and grabbing the cake. 

“It’s not constant,” Brenda mutters.

“It is when I’m with you,” Sharon says. “No wonder you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Brenda says. “I just… am not used to people standing in my way.”

“Or holding you accountable,” Sharon corrects, struggling to unwrap the foil. She gets enough of it out of the way that she can sink her teeth into and she does, groaning a little. She says something through her full mouth that sounds like, “So good.”

And Brenda knows it is good, she’s eaten hundreds of the things in her lifetime but the idea of eating one now seems strange and unnecessary. It might be the most interesting thing about all this sudden change. Half the things that she thinks of as ‘herself’ seem to belong to her body, not her mind. 

Sharon swerves a little getting the rest of the cake free but there’s nothing around them to hit and only a few other cars on the road, far ahead or behind, so Brenda lets her swerve, watches her eat the rest in three huge bites, watches her lick her fingers clean.

“Provenza called the vending machine company one year for my birthday,” Brenda says. “Got them to stock the cakes in the machine for me.” 

“Louie Provenza did that?” Sharon asks, surprised. 

“Yeah,” Brenda says, thinking of her division fondly, and then a little sadly. “He’s a grump but he’s got a good heart.”

“He’s a misogynistic pig,” Sharon says.

“Yeah but,” Brenda shrugs. “He’s better about it these days. And it ain’t malicious.” She inspects her hands, Sharon’s round nails, the thin skin, pale and unfamiliar. “I’m gonna miss ‘em.”

“Don’t do that,” Sharon says. “We’re going to figure out how to fix this.”

“But what if we can’t?”

“I think if this were permanent you’d hear about more cases of people just being wrong, don’t you? Politicians stumping about it, rotary clubs across the country taking up a collection to fund a cure.” Sharon shakes her head. “It’s going to be okay.”

Strangely, Brenda does feel better. Slightly. 

oooo

They stop for a late lunch of drive-thru fast food but when it hits dinner time, Brenda suggests they stop for a real dinner outside of Phoenix. Somewhere they can sit down and be served. Somewhere they can get a drink. Brenda’s butt hurts from sitting in the same spot all day, her knees ache, she feels tired in a way she isn’t used to, even after all nighters in heels. Sharon’s got ten years on her - maybe it makes a difference?

She pulls off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose as Sharon says, “Outback Steakhouse or Applebees?”

“Outback, I guess,” she says. Sharon nods, pulls into the Outback parking lot without complaint, so Brenda guesses she passed that test. 

One of the cellphones in the center console starts to ring and Brenda knows immediately that it’s Fritz. She’s been texting him a little bit all day, here and there, putting off the inevitable. She’d spun some yarn about Sharon’s sister going missing, that Sharon had asked Brenda to help her find her off the clock. Brenda kept saying that she’d call him later but she hasn’t called and of course wasn’t planning too. 

“Okay,” Brenda says. “Like this - Hey, Fritzi!”

“I can’t-” Sharon says.

“You gotta,” Brenda says. “Just look at me. I’m gonna help you.”

She slides her finger along the bottom of the phone and turns on the speaker before Sharon can bolt. She mouths it again: _Hey, Fritzi!_

“Hey!” Sharon says uneasily. “Fritzi!”

“Hi Brenda,” Fritz says and Brenda winces. That’s not a good tone. That’s a tone at the end of its rope. “Where are you?”

“Arizona,” Sharon says, looking at Brenda. 

“I know that much,” Fritz says. “You two okay?”

Brenda nods and mouths " _Be positive._ "

“Yes,” Sharon says. “Captain Raydor is upset but remains hopeful.”

Brenda winces. 

“Thank you for understanding,” Sharon adds and Brenda covers her mouth with her hand and shakes her head. 

“Uh,” Fritz says. “I don’t really. Why didn’t you talk to me before just taking off? I was half afraid I was looking at a Dear John letter.”

Sharon looks up helplessly. 

“No,” she says. “We were just rushing… uh, rushin’. To leave.”

“Well,” Fritz says. “When are you coming home?”

“It depends,” Sharon says. “Hopefully a few days?”

“And what does Pope have to say about this?” Fritz demands.

Brenda drags her finger across her neck and mouths, _No Pope!_

“I’m perfectly within my rights to use my vacation leave without explainin’ why to Will,” Sharon says. Brenda tilts her head. A little stuffy sounding, but better. 

“He just let you leave?”

Well she didn’t tell him, exactly, but what is he going to do? Both Brenda and Sharon are division heads, they can authorize their own vacation requests. 

“Will doesn’t let me do things,” Sharon says hotly. 

“Listen,” Fritz says. “I don’t like this but I guess I think it’s good you wanting to help Raydor instead of wringing her neck, so please be careful and call me if you need any help.”

Sharon glances up at Brenda and raises one eyebrow. Brenda shrugs. 

“Okay,” Sharon says. “Talk to you soon.”

“I love you, Brenda,” Fritz says.

“Uh,” Sharon says, scrunching up her face. “Ditto.”

Brenda reaches out and ends the call. “Ditto?”

“God, that was weird,” Sharon says. “Let’s try to avoid doing that again.”

“Poor Fritzi,” Brenda says. “You’re gonna have to divorce him.”

“Brenda Leigh!” Sharon says. “For the last time, _please_ don’t give up before we’ve even started!”

“Sorry,” Brenda says, chastised. “I just… I don’t see the way out clearly yet.” 

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go in. Eat steak and share a dessert.”

Brenda offers her a small smile. “You won’t want to share with me.”

Sharon laughs. “Two desserts, then.”

oooo

Brenda had asked about calling to let her sister know they were coming but Sharon had said no, better not to. That they weren’t exactly close.

“Because you’re Catholic and think she’s goin’ to hell?” Brenda asks, glancing at the set of rings on Sharon’s left hand. 

“No because she’s ridiculous and never takes responsibility for the bad choices she makes and I decided when I was thirty-five that I wasn’t gonna clean up her messes anymore.”

“And now we’re gonna show up on her door so she can clean up ours?” Brenda scoffs. “Well, shit, Sharon!”

“I know,” Sharon says. It’s dark now, and she’s pushed her sunglasses up on her head. She’d french braided her hair early in the morning while it was still wet and Brenda is impressed how it’s managed to contain the curls all day long. A few of the shorter pieces have escaped around her face throughout the day, but she still looks put together. Brenda wants to reach over and pull the elastic off the bottom of the braid, to use her fingers to unravel it, to scratch her nails lightly over Sharon’s scalp as all that hair comes tumbling free.

Brenda clears her throat and says, “So you’re older?”

“Seven years,” Sharon says. She slows down and squints through the windshield. “I think the turn is up here… yeah, this one.” 

“And she’s like a real witch? Like the kind that can fix us or she’s just eccentric and drinks a lot of tea and wears ugly, large statement jewelry?”

“I don’t know, Brenda. Real witch isn’t really a term I can define for you. She probably knows more about this than I do.” 

“We just drove nine hours for probably?” Brenda screeches. 

“This isn’t a conversation you wanted to have any time before now?” Sharon snaps back. “We’re here. We did this. This is happening.”

The little house is on the edge of town and it’s really dark out here, dark enough that the headlights draw someone out from in the house. Brenda sees the porchlight come on and then the front door open, a slim woman comes out and stands on the walkway, watching the car. 

“Okay,” Sharon says, opening her door. “Okay.” 

Brenda gets out too and offers a small wave to the woman watching them. There’s a few moments and then she calls, “Is that you, Sharon?” 

Sharon comes around the front of the car to stand next to Brenda and so Brenda calls, “Hey. Yeah.”

She doesn’t even know the damn woman’s name. 

The woman walks toward them and stops a few feet away.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, glancing at Sharon. 

“Uh,” Brenda says. 

“We have a situation,” Sharon says. “We could use your help.” 

The woman studies Sharon for a long moment and then glances back at Brenda who is still standing nervously, tucking her hair behind her ear once, twice. 

Sharon’s sister looks like she’s about to send them both away but then says, “Come in, then.”

The front door opens to a small living room and in the light, her sister turns to Sharon and says, “I’m Aramanthia, by the way.”

Sharon presses her lips together and says with barely controlled frustration. “Your name is Susan.”

Aramanthia stops short then, and then turns to look at Brenda with narrowed eyes. Brenda lets out a nervous giggle and says, “You know how sometimes things ain’t what they seem, exactly?”

Aramanthia turns and points at Sharon and says, “You’re Sharon?”

“It’s a long story,” she sighs.

“We got hexed,” Brenda says.

“Okay, not that long,” Sharon mutters. “Someone in L.A. suggested that we’d get the best help from family. From someone we trust.”

“So what the hell are you doing here?” her sister says softly.

Brenda can see it. The resemblance. Aramanthia’s hair is a strawberry blonde but she has the same clear, creamy skin, the same high cheekbones. But she doesn’t have Sharon’s round nose and her eyes are a little darker. 

The door slams when Sharon storms out. 

“Hi, I’m Brenda,” Brenda offers. 

Aramanthia levels her with a glare that is apparently genetic. 

“She’s not… she’s havin’ a tough time with this. We both are, actually, but it was her idea to come here so she must… she must have some faith in ya!”

“We haven’t spoken in five years,” Aramanthia says. “And no one calls me Susan anymore.”

“I like your new name better!” Brenda offers and finally the sister snorts. 

“You really must be someone else, she's never that cheerful or kind.”

“She's not… she's better than she used to be,” Brenda says. “Look, we really need to get back to our lives. Do you know of any way to help us?”

“It’s too late to do much of anything now,” Aramanthia says. “Do you guys have some place to stay?”

Brenda shakes her head. “We could find a hotel.”

“It’s all right,” she says. “I have a guest room.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s up to you to talk her back into the house, though,” she says and puts her hands into the pockets of her long sweater in just the same way that Brenda has seen her sister do twenty times. 

oooo

Sharon is sitting in the car, crying.

“You cry easier than I do,” she says when Brenda opens the door. She wipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand. It’s Brenda’s immediate instinct to argue about that but she clamps down on it hard. 

“What about,” Brenda says, sitting down and closing the door, “telling me what happened five years ago.”

Sharon holds onto the wheel tight and sniffs wetly. 

“Our mother died,” she says. “She’s my half sister, we have a different father.”

“Ah,” Brenda says.

“We fought cleaning out the house over some stupid thing. I can’t even remember what anymore,” Sharon says.

“Yeah you can.”

Sharon glances at her. “She wanted to take something, a painting that my father had bought for our mother and I told her I thought it should stay in the family.”

“Sharon…”

“I didn’t mean that Susan wasn’t family, I just meant…”

“You didn’t think before you spoke,” Brenda supplies. “Rare from you but not totally unheard of.” 

“She didn’t want my apologies and I even offered the damn painting but… she’s stubborn and hot headed and she just took it the wrong way!” Sharon lets go of the wheel and rubs her hands on her thighs. 

“She’s gonna let us spend the night,” Brenda says. “Try not to call her Susan, okay? And if we get things sorted out, maybe you can sort out some of your sister stuff, too.”

Sharon nods. Reaches up and pulls the elastic out of her hair and shakes it out, freeing her hair. She buries a hand in it and sighs. 

“That was giving me a headache,” she sighs.

“You know what, Sharon Raydor?” Brenda says. “I think you might like me too.”

Sharon’s head whips around to look at her. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Sure in a much more repressed Catholic way…”

“What you’re feeling is narcissism,” Sharon says.

“Oh, I ain’t that pretty, not compared to you,” Brenda says. “If we’re stuck like this, I certainly get the better end of the deal.” 

“Can we just go inside, please,” Sharon says. “I’m tired and I don’t have the energy to stroke your ego.”

“That was called a compliment. Other people just say thank you,” Brenda says, pushing open the car door.

oooo

Aramanthia’s guest room is small, filled mostly by a queen sized bed and a white dresser covered in framed pictures. 

“You slept on the couch last night,” Sharon offers. “I can take it tonight.”

“Generally I would take you up on that,” Brenda says. “But, frankly, I’m not sure we should push our luck in regards to her hospitality.” 

Sharon drops her bag and sighs, rubbing her lower back. “Fine.” She turns and looks at the pictures and reaches out for one. A little girl in a black leotard and pink tights, her arms over her head.

“Is that you?” Brenda asks.

“No,” Sharon says. “It’s Emily. My daughter.” 

“I keep forgetting,” Brenda frets. “Okay, I take back what I said in the car. Motherhood ain’t for me!”

“You’re a good liar and you read people well but there will be some people you can’t convince,” Sharon says. “My children among them.”

Brenda sits on the edge of the bed and rubs her forehead. Pushes the glasses up and touches the bridge of her nose where it feels tender and red, permanently indented. The room gets a little fuzzy but she can see well enough to sit on a bed and feel sorry for herself. 

“Where do your kids live?” Brenda asks. Sharon sits next to her, the mattress dipping. 

“Emily lives in New York. Richard lives in Palo Alto.”

“Where’s that?”

“Up north,” Sharon says. “He works for Stanford.”

“He’s smart like you, then,” Brenda says. 

“And charming like his father,” Sharon says. “Used to getting what he wants without working very hard.” 

“I feel like there’s something I’m missing. Some easy solution. Like if we hold hands and click our heels things’ll go back to normal,” Brenda says. 

Sharon reaches out and grabs her fingers. Her hands are cold and nothing happens. 

“Sorry, Chief,” Sharon murmurs. 

“You gonna be okay in this bed with me?” Brenda asks. Sharon takes her hand away, rubs her thigh again.

“Of course,” she says. “We’re professionals.”

But even when they’re changed and lying side by side on the hard mattress, neither sleep. Brenda tries for a while but then sits up.

“What’s the matter?” Sharon asks.

“My back hurts. Actually _your_ back hurts,” Brenda complains. “It hurt last night, too.”

“You’re too old for couches, I’m afraid,” Sharon chuckles. “Have you been stretching?”

“Stretching?”

“I usually stretch every morning and every night. Light yoga. Keeps me from feeling stiff and sore.”

“Twice a day?” Brenda exclaims. “Ugh.” 

Sharon reaches over to turn on the lamp. Looks at Brenda with squinty, tired eyes.

“Come on,” she says. “We’ll do it together.”

“You drove all that way, you gotta be exhausted,” Brenda says. “I probably have an aspirin in my bag.”

“No, no, this is better,” Sharon says. “There’s not space in here, come on.”

They creep through the quiet, dark house. Through the living room, into the kitchen and through a glass sliding door into the backyard. Neither have on shoes and Sharon is in Brenda’s pajamas - pink and green cotton pants and a white t-shirt. She’s kept her bra on. Brenda is in Sharon’s pajamas - it seems easier to keep the right body with the right clothes. She didn’t pack the Miss Havisham nightgown but instead found a little silk pajama set in a dark green - shorts and a long sleeved button down shirt. So she wears that, bra free. Blissfully bra free. 

The backyard has a big concrete patio and a small pool. Everything is dark, but there’s three quarters of a moon and plenty of stars. It’s not at all cold, either, and the concrete is warm on the soles of her feet. 

That window, there, must be Sharon’s sister’s bedroom but the blinds are closed. 

“Okay,” Sharon whispers. “Stand right here.”

Brenda can sort of see her. She’s put the glasses back on, at any rate, and so her eyes slowly adjust. 

This must be what identical twins feel like. To look and see yourself. The most unsettling thing is that it isn’t, exactly, how she sees herself. It’s not exactly like looking in a mirror. More like looking at a picture. Clearly herself, but different. And Sharon still holds herself like Sharon. And pulls faces like Sharon and rolls her eyes like Sharon. 

Brenda gathers up all the dark hair and twists it until it’s atop her head, secures it. Sharon gives her a small, mysterious smile. 

She feels silly, mimicking the positions. Knees bent, arms out, swinging over at her waist, but it does stretch her out good. 

They’re sitting across from each other on the warm ground, reaching for their toes when Sharon says, “It’ll be difficult to go back, I think.”

“How so?” Brenda asks.

“I think we could’ve been good friends, if things were different,” Sharon says reaching out to wrap her hands around one foot. “But Chief Johnson and Captain Raydor… I’m not sure that can be salvaged.”

“I’m not good at friends,” Brenda admits. “I’ve always been sorta… competitive.”

Sharon snorts. 

“The only friends I have are my division,” Brenda confesses. “But Fritz says I see them all day and don’t spend enough time with him so we almost never get to do anything social.” 

Sharon frowns and looks just like -just like! - Willie Rae. There’s a sobering thought. How much one starts to age like one’s mother. 

“I like you, Captain, I do, but I gotta be careful around you and so I am,” Brenda says leaning forward to wrap her hands around her foot. Sharon’s body is surprisingly flexible. 

Sharon is quiet and when Brenda glances up, it’s because she’s staring down Brenda’s blouse. 

“Sorry,” Brenda says.

Sharon shakes her head, scoots back and curls up, bringing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “I know exactly, _exactly_ what you look like naked and I’m not sure if that’s making it better or worse.” 

Brenda has nothing but sympathy for her because she does know what’s it like. The rising heat, the endless, helpless, unquenchable want. 

“Sharon,” Brenda says. “What if we just… took care of you.”

Sharon shakes her head.

“I could help,” Brenda presses. 

“I don’t… I’m not… I don’t do that,” Sharon says. “I’ve never done that before.”

“I haven’t either,” Brenda says. Sharon’s head snaps up, her face open and wide with disbelief.

“But you… surely, if you feel like this… you’ve-”

“I’ve felt like that before about, about other women. Sort of. Never like how it is with you but… just because you have certain desires doesn’t mean you act on ‘em!” Brenda sputters. 

“You’re married,” Sharon says.

“When I said my marriage vows, this wasn’t a situation I was anticipatin’,” Brenda says. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, I guess.”

“Or Sedona,” Sharon says. “Thanks for the offer but I think I’m just gonna stay out here for awhile. Why don’t you get some sleep?”

Brenda knows a dismissal when she hears one.

“All right,” Brenda says. “Goodnight, Sharon.”

“Goodnight,” she says and turns again to dip her toes in the dark, cool water of the swimming pool.


	7. let me hear your body talk (part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharon sighs a long-suffering sigh perfected through years of motherhood, no doubt.

Brenda wakes up alone in the bed. 

When she pads out into the living room, she can hear voices in the kitchen. In a different situation, Brenda might be more embarrassed to come out undressed or without a robe at least, but there’s something freeing about looking like Sharon. She knows Sharon is beautiful and has nothing to be ashamed of and so she doesn’t feel ashamed about tousled hair and bare legs, even legs with soft stubble, no longer perfectly smooth. 

The sofa has a blanket on it, rumpled and twisted up. So Sharon had never come to bed, after all. So much for being professionals. 

She can see through the door in the kitchen the two women sitting at the small table in there. Sharon’s tall, lithe, elegant sister and her small, rumpled looking self. She hesitates in the doorway.

“Oh,” Sharon’s sister says, glancing up. “Here’s your other half now.” 

“Here she is,” Sharon murmurs. “You want some coffee?”

Brenda nods. Aramanthia rises, moves to the cupboard to pull down a mug for her and fills it from the coffee pot. 

“She likes sugar, lots of it,” Sharon says.

“No, you do,” Brenda says. “Your mouth likes it just fine black.”

Sharon smiles. “Oh right.”

“My sister has been telling me your tale of woe,” Aramanthia says, handing the mug over. Brenda sips it and slips into the vacant chair between them. 

“We got hexed,” Brenda reiterates. 

“Maybe,” Aramanthia says. “I’ll call around, get some friends here. People who are more experienced than I am.”

“Pop our hoods and take a look around?” Brenda asks. 

Aramanthia’s eyes crinkle when she smiles, just like her sister. “Something like that,” she says. 

Sharon tells Brenda to shower first. “I’m too hungry to shower,” she says, smearing cream cheese thickly onto a bagel. 

Brenda makes a face but says, “Okay.”

“What’s the matter?” Sharon asks, licking the white cheese spread off the dull blade of the butter knife.

“It’s just sobering to see yourself how other people see you,” Brenda admits and Aramanthia laughs from the sink. 

“Stuffing your face, you mean,” Sharon says. “Other people don’t understand your metabolism.”

“My mama is the same way,” Brenda says.

“Does she have your libido too?” Sharon demands.

Brenda cringes. “I never thought to ask. But she does have four children, so maybe?” 

Brenda turns to see Aramanthia grinning at them. “At least this happened to someone you were already friends with, Shar. Coulda been a lot worse.”

“We’re not friends,” Brenda says at the same time Sharon does.

“Yes, you are,” Aramanthia says. “I’ve heard about this happening to people and it being so uncomfortable that it caused them physical pain. Like… like a body rejecting a transplanted organ, but from what Sharon has told me, Brenda, you two have rolled with it remarkably well.” 

“Nothing hurts exactly,” Brenda says. “I think there’s some discomfort but more because we don’t know what the hell we’re doing half the time.”

“I like Agent Howard well enough but I don’t want to wake up next to him again, that’s for sure,” Sharon says and then shoves the rest of one half of her bagel into her mouth. 

“Have your shower,” Aramanthia says. “I’ll make my calls.” 

oooo

Brenda spends extra time in the shower conditioning and shaving under her arms and making sure her legs are as smooth as they are pale. She nearly slices her knee open with the sharp blade of the razor because Sharon is ticklish there where Brenda is not. She soaps up, running her hands all over, watching Sharon’s skin react carefully. It turns bright pink where the hot water hits it. Her nipples pucker when Brenda tweaks them. 

When she soaps up her hands to wash between her legs, she’s not surprised to find that she’s a little bit wet. She slips a finger inside herself without much thought and then realizes that it’s not her body, not hers at all! And while she’s given Sharon permission to go exploring, Sharon has not extended the same to her, so she yanks her hand away and sticks her face in the spray of the shower, reaching out blindly to feel for the knob and then twist it hard to cold. 

Sharon is in the guestroom, sitting cross legged on the bed when Brenda comes in, hair dripping because she was only given one towel and it’s wrapped around her. Sharon is still eating, this time it’s a big apple already half gone. 

“Did you have fun?” Sharon asks, licking her wrist where the apple juice had dripped down.

“It was just a shower!” Brenda says, defensive and guilty. 

Sharon narrows her eyes and says, “Okay. My sister-” Because Sharon won’t use the new name but at least has stopped saying the old, “she’s making her calls and is going to give us a list. You up for a little shopping?” 

“Do we have anything better to do?” Brenda asks, tugging the towel more tightly around her. 

Sharon shrugs. Takes another bite of her apple and then hands it to Brenda who takes it simply out of surprise. “I’m going to shower, if you’ve left me any hot water, that is.”

“My shower was mostly cold,” Brenda says and then, when Sharon smirks, she says, “It’s hot here!” 

“A cold shower sounds just fine,” Sharon says, grabbing a few things out of her suitcase and leaving Brenda alone. 

She sits on the edge of the bed and takes a bite out of the apple, then another, and another until it’s just the core. She drops it in the small trash in the corner and wipes her hand on her towel, crouches down where their suitcases are side by side against the wall. She sticks her hand in Sharon’s, drawn to the familiar look of her own clothes before she realizes and instead pulls out a pair of tan pants and a white blouse. 

It’s not that Sharon didn’t have skirts and dresses, it was that they were all for work. She didn’t have anything casual and didn’t even own a pair of shorts. Brenda had argued that it would be hotter than hell in Arizona and Sharon had countered with long pants in light colors. 

“You’ll burn,” is all she’d said. 

So Brenda pulls on clean underwear and fastens on a cream colored bra and then puts the damp towel on her head. 

She has the pants on, but not the blouse when Sharon comes back in with her own towel wrapped around her and another one around her hair. Where’d she get a second towel? Nepotism. 

“You were gone five minutes! Did you even get my poor body clean at all?” Brenda demands, putting her hands on her hips. 

“I got the important bits,” Sharon promises, spinning quickly so that she doesn’t look at Brenda. 

Brenda rolls her eyes. “It’s _your_ body!”

“Just put on a shirt.”

“I don’t think I’m the narcissist,” Brenda says, crouching back down. “I can’t find the deodorant.” 

“There’s some in my bag,” Sharon says. So Brenda rifles through that.

“It ain’t here,” she complains.

Sharon sighs a long-suffering sigh perfected through years of motherhood, no doubt. Crouches next to Brenda and reaches right into the suitcase, pulls out the blue deodorant and hands it to her. 

“It’s not me, Brenda Leigh, it’s definitely you,” Sharon says. “I know my flaws but when I’m in your hard headed body, they seem like attributes. Maybe that’s the pain my sister was talking about? Seeing what you could be while knowing all along how you really are?”

Brenda looks at her own wide mouth, small eyes, pointy nose. The face she’s endured for years, learned slowly to tolerate and then enhance the best she could - but with Sharon inside, she seems almost pretty. 

Maybe they could just…

Sharon stands up, grabs the white blouse from the bed and shoves it at Brenda.

“Go do your hair,” she says. 

So Brenda shrugs on the shirt and leaves Sharon in peace. 

oooo

Sharon drives because again, her car and she seems to know the area well enough. Maybe she’s just one of those people with a good sense of direction. One of those people who can visit a place once and then come back ten years later and remember every turn, every landmark. 

Brenda herself has no sense of direction and seemingly has not inherited one by jumping to a nicer model. She sits on her hands - it’s hot outside but in the car the air conditioner blasts them both with freezing hair. Sharon has it turned up high and Brenda knows why. 

They go to one of the new age stores on Aramanthia’s list. 

“Why are there so many in such a small town?” Brenda wonders. 

“The Sedona Vortexes bring out the tourists,” Sharon says.

Brenda stares at her, aghast and delighted. “You mean the _vortices_ ,” she corrects, smugly. 

Sharon rolls her eyes. Brenda can’t see it behind those big glasses, but she knows Sharon does it all the same.

“Technically both are correct and here in Sedona, they use vortexes, so bite me.” 

Brenda has to laugh. There was a time when Sharon’s sharp words would have sent her into a fury but now she finds it nearly endearing.

“That’s more comforting than you gettin’ somethin’ wrong, frankly,” Brenda confesses. “Do you feel any weirder due to strange energy?”

“I can safely say that this is the weirdest I have ever felt,” Sharon says. “But I don’t think that’s related.”

“You’re funny,” Brenda says. “I like it.”

“It’s better if you’re mean, honestly,” Sharon groans. “Say something mean.”

“I don’t care for that dress with those shoes,” Brenda says.

Sharon smirks. “Your shoes. Your dress.”

“You put ‘em together, though,” Brenda says.

Sharon sighs. “Is that the best you got?”

“I guess I could slap you, but you’d know my heart wasn’t really in it,” Brenda says. 

At the new age store, this one called Crystal Magic, they buy a basket full of herbs and candles and crystals and all sorts of things that Brenda would have, at one time, called total nonsense. But now she holds the basket and Sharon nestles things carefully inside. There’s a sullen looking college aged boy behind the counter, who rings them up and then says, “Would either of you like a psychic reading today?”

“No,” Sharon says. 

“I think we know as much as we care to about ourselves, thanks,” Brenda says.

“Your total is 89.94,” he says. 

Brenda glances at Sharon who smiles slightly. Steep, but they’d pay any price and they both know it. 

“Is that all we have to do?” Brenda asks when they step back out onto the sidewalk, like walking into an oven. She wouldn’t mind throwing herself into that swimming pool of Aramanthia’s and then maybe having a nap. 

“No, we’re supposed to go to this address at three o’clock,” Sharon says, showing Brenda the piece of paper that her sister had made out for them. 

“Mysterious,” Brenda says. 

“So let’s get lunch,” Sharon says. “I’m starving.”

“Of course you are,” Brenda says. 

There’s a mexican food restaurant close enough to walk, though they’re both sweating by the time they make it in the door. Brenda has never cared one way or another about mexican food, has learned to eat it like people in Georgia learn to eat fried chicken and gravy and drink Coca Cola no matter the time of day, but she doesn’t ever crave it. 

But Sharon’s a Californian and the moment the step in, Brenda inhales deeply and says, “I want guacamole somethin’ fierce.” 

“We can get some,” Sharon assures her. 

They make the guacamole fresh and bring it out with a basket of hot, salty corn chips and a little dish of salsa. Brenda doesn’t even like salsa but she eats it anyway, her mouth tingling and her eyes watering. Sharon nibbles at plain chips and orders a chicken burrito. Brenda orders fajitas that come sizzling and spitting. 

“You know for someone who loves food as much as you do, this has been an unexciting meal,” Sharon comments. “What do you have against mexican food?”

“Nothin’,” Brenda says. “It’s just… not how I was raised up, that’s all.”

“You weren’t raised in Italy but I’ve seen you pack away the pasta,” Sharon comments. 

Brenda rolls her eyes. 

“You know, I do think about more than sex and food,” Brenda says. 

“And murder,” Sharon adds. 

“You don’t even know me that well. You see me as a stereotype,” Brenda accuses. “What if we never switch back because walkin’ a mile in each other’s shoes hasn’t done jack shit for us?”

“That’s why we came to see the witches,” Sharon says. “We’re just going to have to fix it with force.” 

Brenda shakes her head, rests her chin her palm. She’s all for a cheery attitude but she’s always been somewhat of a realist and she’s worried about what’s going to happen to Sharon if her relentless optimism just doesn’t pan out. 

At three o’clock they discover, by navigating through a somewhat sudden traffic jam, that the address given to them belongs to an elementary school. Here they are, right smack dab in the middle of pick up time. When Brenda looks at the list, she realizes what she thought was an apartment number is probably a classroom number. 

“Where’s a police car when you need one,” Sharon murmurs, glancing longingly at the red zone. 

“Maybe there’s street parking behind?” Brenda says. Still, it takes several minutes to get out of the crush of cars and yellow buses and when they do manage to circle around, there are still parents idling on the residential street that backs the school. They find parking another two streets away. 

“Should we call your sister and get more information?” Brenda wonders. 

“I think if she wanted us to have more information, she would have written it down,” Sharon says. “Let’s just go in and see what the deal is.” 

“I’m pretty sure adults wandering around an elementary school is bad,” Brenda says.

“We’re women,” Sharon says. “I doubt anyone will stop us and if they do, we’ll badge our way through.”

“My, my, who knew you could play dirty, Captain?” Brenda says.

“That’s Deputy Chief to you,” Sharon says, slinging Brenda’s tote over her shoulder.

They’re sweaty and miserable by the time they find the correct classroom, but at least the crowd has thinned out a bit and no one pays them any attention. Maybe they look like someone’s mother. They’re both a little long in the tooth to have an elementary schooler but hey, maybe they adopted.

The classroom door is unlocked and when they push it open, a wall of cool air hits them and Brenda sighs. Brenda usually likes the heat, but Sharon’s body seems to wilt a lot sooner than her own does. She gets sweaty and her vision swims, she feels lightheaded after only a little bit of time out under the relentless Arizona sun. 

There’s a teacher at the desk and a little girl sitting at a table, coloring. She’s got some lined paper in front of her and a pink box filled with colored pencils and she is bent studiously over her work. Brenda looks around, unsure of what she’s supposed to do and Sharon steps up to the teacher and says, “Excuse me, I hate to intrude but-”

The teacher just points to the little girl without looking away from her computer. 

Brenda turns to look at the girl, confused. Sharon looks perplexed as well, but gamely pulls out one of the chairs at the table and sits down. Brenda follows suit. The girl doesn’t look up, but trades a brown colored pencil for a bright green one.

“Hi,” Sharon says, when nothing seems to happen. The girl only glances up. “What’s your name?"

“What’s yours?” she asks. 

“Sharon,” Sharon says. “This is Brenda.”

“I’m Mariposa,” she says, flicking one long, shiny black braid behind her shoulder. She looks at Brenda with her dark brown eyes and says, “You look like her.”

“Huh?” Brenda says.

“Aramanthia,” she says. 

“She’s, uh… she’s my sister?” Brenda manages. Mariposa looks between them and then gives them a big, toothy smile in only that way that children with their adult teeth can. 

“You two are very wrong,” she says. “Like reanimated corpses, no?”

“That’s an appalling way to say it,” Sharon says. 

“Do you not feel appalled?” Mariposa asks. 

“Who are you?” Brenda demands. 

“I’m the high priestess of your sister’s coven,” she says, looking at Sharon. 

“You’re eight-years-old!” Brenda says.

“I’m nine,” Mariposa corrects. “I’m the most powerful witch in Sedona.” 

“Good for you,” Sharon says. “Can you fix us?”

She tilts her head, leans back in her small, blue chair. She’s got a smiling cupcake on her t-shirt. 

“You’re not broken,” she says. “Just lost. I can’t snap my fingers and put you back. This isn’t Hogwarts.”

“What’s Hog-” Brenda starts but Sharon cuts her off with a hand in the air.

“Don’t,” she says and then says to the girl, “What can we do?”

“We can help light your path,” Mariposa says. She nods, pleased, and picks up a yellow pencil. “That’s what we’ll do.” 

oooo

But Mariposa doesn’t come with the other women who start showing up at Aramanthia’s house once the sun starts to set. Brenda asks about it, curious and a little judgey and Aramanthia just says that the ritual will go past Mariposa’s bedtime and no one seems to find that hilarious except Brenda, who mannages to swallow her laughter but only just. 

“She must have a pretty understanding mother,” Brenda hedges.

“About many things, but not bedtimes,” Aramanthia says. 

Sharon smiles, cleaning out the coffee pot at the sink. She’ll make a fresh pot, pass out mugs. Brenda has noticed long before this whole situation that Sharon Raydor doesn’t like a crowd. So she’ll play hostess in her sister’s home, her back to the crowd as much as possible. No one blames her, least of all, Brenda. She’d hide too, if she could. 

Julio calls Brenda’s phone, it buzzes against her hip, and she ducks into the guestroom to answer it, closing the door gently behind her only to find that Sharon is already in there, sitting on the foot of the bed, worrying at the hem of Brenda’s dress. 

“Hello?” she says. Sharon looks up and then realizes Brenda isn’t talking to her. 

“Oh Captain,” he says, and then, “Wait, no. Chief?”

“Yes, Detective, it’s me,” she says rolling her eyes. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing really,” he says. “Chief Pope keeps asking when you’re coming back and I think ‘soon’ is starting to wear thin.”

“Pope?” Brenda says. “He hasn’t called me once!”

“Well, no,” Sharon says. “He couldn’t.” Brenda glances at her but says nothing about it to Julio.

“Hopefully this will all be sorted tonight,” Brenda says. “Y’all still workin’ that case?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he says. “But all our suspects have lawyered up and we can only hold them so long.”

“Well I wish I could be there to help you,” she says. “But criminals always slip up so we’ll get ‘em back in the interrogation room for somethin’ else, I’m sure.” 

She can hear Provenza in the background. “Is that the Chief? Give that to me!” There’s a shuffle as Julio tries not to hand over the phone but Provenza succeeds and says, “Chief, it’s probably the ex-boyfriend, Chad, because I’ve never met a Chad that isn’t a two-face spoiled brat-”

“Lieutenant!” Brenda says. 

Provenza stops. “Captain?”

“Yes,” Brenda says, rolling her eyes. “If I wanted to speak to you, I would have asked Detective Sanchez to put you on. Please hand the phone back to him.” 

Sharon snorts. 

“Sanchez,” he says. “Sorry, you know how he is.”

“I do,” Brenda says, gentler now. “If this works, we’ll hit the road just as soon as possible and if not… we’ll we still have to come back, so…”

“Agent Howard was here, earlier,” Julio says softly. “I think he thought you’d be here?”

“He knows we ain’t!” Brenda says, stomping her foot. Of course Fritz didn’t trust her. He never does, not when it counts for anything. 

“Well, hope things work out for you. And the Captain, too,”

“Thank you,” she says. “Bye, now.”

Sharon looks back into her lap. “I’m nervous.”

Brenda sighs, huffy and mad. Not at Sharon, for once, just with the situation. That they’re here, that this isn’t something she can talk her way out of. 

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Brenda says. “Maybe it’ll be nice?”

Sharon looks unconvinced.

oooo

Aramanthia makes them get in the pool. Sharon stutters, immediately against the idea, says dumbly, “I didn’t bring a suit.” 

Brenda rolls her eyes, reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head. 

“But,” Sharon says. “Wait!”

“Just down to your drawers,” Brenda says. “Fighting against everything isn’t going to make this any easier, you know.” 

“The whole of coming here was to have someone you trust,” Aramanthia says.

“Oh, can it, Susan,” Sharon hisses and her sister throws up her hands and turns away.

“Enough!” Brenda says. “Take off your clothes and get in the damn pool or I’m gonna throw your ass in!” 

“Brenda,” Sharon says helplessly and Brenda relents, feels sorry her. 

“Give us a moment,” Brenda says, and takes Sharon’s elbow, pulls her inside the kitchen and closes the slider behind them. Everyone can see them in the well lit kitchen, but it’s a modicum of privacy at any rate. “It’s just… it’s just a ritual. Like anything is a ritual. Like everything is. Don’t think of it as magic or spells or whatever. Just think about the rituals you love and are familiar with.”

“Like what?” Sharon asks skeptically. 

“I dunno,” Brenda says. “Like trials. Like birthdays or, or decorating a christmas tree. These things are meaningful to us but nothing happens either way if we don’t do ‘em or do ‘em differently.”

“Things happen differently if we don’t have trials,” Sharon says.

“Do they?” Brenda asks. “You and Will are always on my case to make deals with the D.A. and get ‘em right in a cell without a trial.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Sharon says.

“Ignore them, is all I’m saying. Just focus on me. Let them dance around or curse us in latin or do the hokey pokey or whatever,” Brenda says. “As far as you’re concerned it’s just you and me in that pool. You just focus on me and I’ll focus on you and we’ll get things back to right again, you’ll see.”

Sharon smirks at her. “Your confidence used to make me so mad,” she says.

“And now?” Brenda asks. 

“And now,” Sharon says. She reaches out to thread their fingers together. Gives them a squeeze.

oooo

The pool water is not cold, exactly, even with the sun down now, there is nowhere that is cold. But it does take a few minutes to adjust, a few moments of furiously moving their limbs to make things bearable. Sharon looks a little like a drown rat when she comes up, Brenda can think that with all honesty because it’s her body. Wet hair and running makeup is not her best look. Her features look too sharp. But knowing Sharon is in there, somewhere, tricks Brenda’s self-loathing brain into still thinking she’s pretty. Go figure. 

They hold hands underwater and Brenda remembers her mama always reaching out for the hands of her friends, in church or at social functions, always just holding on because she could and Brenda had thought that it made her weaker, somehow, craving contact like that but Brenda can see that she’d been wrong. She’s never had girlfriends, not like her mama, never had a person to hold hands with that she hadn’t been married to or having an affair with. 

But she and Sharon are friends now, they have to be. If this isn’t enough to bury the hatchet, nothing will ever be, so she hangs on tight, their hands eerie and translucent underwater in the cold lights of the pool. The women stand around them, speaking and occasionally tossing things into the water. Crystals sink to the bottom, herbs float along the top. There are tons of candles around the edges of the pools, dripping hot wax onto the cement. It’ll be hell to get off, later, but what do they care. 

Brenda hears the words “light your path” and it catches her attention back, because it’s what the little girl had said before. It must be the end of the ceremony at any rate because the women drop hands and the circle breaks and they’re just there, wet in the pool surrounded by floating debris. 

“Now what?” Brenda asks. “I don’t feel any different.” 

“I’m not sure,” Aramanthia says. She points to a plastic chair. “Towels for you here. Wake me up if you need anything, all right?”

“That can’t be… that can’t be it,” Sharon says, that look of panic in her eyes again.

“Maybe it’s gradual,” Brenda says. “I mean it wasn’t instant the first time right? We slept through it.”

“That’s true,” Sharon says. 

They climb out of the pool, hurry to the towels. They’re big beach towels which is nice because they wrap all the way around, cover them from armpits to past their knees. 

“Hot shower,” Sharon mumbles. 

“I’m not sure we’re supposed to wash off,” Brenda says. “Otherwise what’s the point of throwing all that stuff in the water?”

“Yes, I’m sure chlorine was a key ingredient in that spell.” Sharon’s voice is dripping with sarcasm but she goes back to the guestroom, passing the bathroom all together. But once they get in there, Sharon seems to freeze, wet and miserable. “I’m so tired,” she says. “Too tired of this.”

“Come on, honey,” Brenda says. “We’ll get you warm and dry.” 

“I don’t feel different,” Sharon says, her face pinching up like she’s on the edge of tears - Brenda has seen that face in the mirror about a thousand times. “It’s not going to work.”

“Shush,” Brenda says, crouching at Sharon’s suitcase and pulling out her own yoga pants and soft black t-shirt. Soft and comfortable and dark will suit Sharon just fine. She hands the clothes to her and says, “Go get dressed in the bathroom and I’ll come in in a moment and blow dry your hair. You’ll feel better.” 

Sharon nods, takes the clothes. While she’s gone, Brenda strips off her bra and panties, dropping them with a wet smack on the wooden floor. She towels off briskly and pulls on clean underwear and the same pajamas from yesterday. She wraps the big towel around her head. The bathroom door is closed and she knocks lightly, opening it slowly when Sharon doesn’t answer. She’s dressed, sitting on the edge of the tub. 

“Okay,” Brenda says. She’s not used to being the maternal one. Not at all well-versed in offering comfort, only ever taking and taking and spending it all until she’s got nothing left and no one willing to give. Brenda takes the blow dryer from the counter and yanks the plug out of the socket. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

“What about Ar… what about my sister?” Sharon says. 

“Oh, phooey on her, she can deal with a little noise,” Brenda says, taking her hairbrush too, now all mixed up with dark and light strands of hair. They’ve been sharing almost everything without a second thought. Maybe they have learned something after all, not that either of them will ever admit it. 

In the kitchen, she plugs in the blow dryer and gets Sharon all settled in a wooden chair. Puts up most of the hair with her own plastic clip and then starts the long process of blowing out hair that wants only to curl. And as she works through she can see Sharon’s shoulders, narrow and bony, finally start to relax and then slump, her head tilting a little to one side. 

She works at it for several minutes, letting more and more damp hair down and it does smell a little like chlorine but like shampoo underneath and something else, something that must be unique to her own body, something she can’t smell when she’s inside it where she’s supposed to be. She realizes Sharon usually smells like expensive perfume and something sweet to her, but she hasn’t smelled that smell since the swap. She lifts the hand holding the hairbrush and sniffs at her wrist but she just smells the pool water. 

When the blonde hair is straight and dry, she sets the hair dryer down and brushes it out, sections it out and starts braiding like her mama used to do for her when she was nervous or worried or scared. She’s certain her body will remember the sensation even if Sharon doesn’t. 

She secures one braid with the elastic on her own wrist and when it’s time to secure the other side, Sharon holds up her own arm and lets Brenda pull the damp elastic off of her wrist too. 

“Feel better?” Brenda says. “Because only one of us can freak out about it not workin’ at a time and I think it’s almost my turn again.” 

“I feel...” Sharon says softly with her back still to Brenda. “Strange.” 

Brenda feels a shiver of nerves and rushes around to Sharon’s front, crouches in front of her so she can look her right in the eye. And it’s difficult to notice at first but there is something different about Sharon. Her rosy cheeks, her hooded eyes all familiar to Brenda but different too. 

She’s glowing. And not just from a brisk night time swim, not from the heat and comforting noise of the blow dryer, not from the sensation of another woman’s fingers in her hair. She’s not ripe and glowing like a new lover or a woman heavy with child.

She’s literally, actually glowing. 

Brenda can see the light in her eyes, on her lips, down the vee of the black t-shirt. Light and warmth and heat and Brenda is the moth. She feels dizzy looking at herself, at Sharon, not quite able to tell where her body ends and the other woman begins. Brenda has blonde hair and brown eyes but she can see Sharon in there, the mossy green eyes, the dark roots. She can see what she is and what she should be. 

“I feel strange,” Sharon says again. 

“Captain,” Brenda says, her voice wavering slightly. “I think I know what we’re supposed to do.” 

“What?” Sharon says. 

“Follow the light,” Brenda whispers before reaching out to drag her fingertips across Sharon’s glowing lips. 

oooo

Sharon says that Brenda starts to glow, too, but it’s not like Sharon needs much convincing once Brenda gets her into the bed. Once Brenda gets all her clothes onto the floor and realizes she’s all lit up in her most sensitive places. All the places on Brenda’s body that make her shiver and shake. Her lips, her neck, both earlobes, the tips of her breasts, the inside of each thigh. 

Sharon shifts on the bed, aware that she’s on display but too worked up to get very embarrassed about it. Brenda slides her hand along Sharon’s calf and Sharon gasps, biting her lip. 

“What about… shouldn’t we just…” Sharon says but Brenda shakes her head.

“Nothing counts when this is all over, okay? What happens in Arizona stays in Arizona.”

Sharon nods, says “Kiss me, then,” even as she parts her knees. 

“I will,” Brenda says. “But we have to get one under your belt, Captain, or you won’t be able to focus.”

“But-”

“Trust me,” Brenda says dryly. 

Sharon nods. “What does it look like?”

“Shimmerin’, kinda,” Brenda says. “Soft and warm.”

“Well,” Sharon says. “Isn’t it always?”

Brenda snickers and then reaches forward to drag a finger through the wet heat. Sharon groans, her hips canting up and it’s strange and surreal because it’s her own body but it isn’t and she should feel out of sorts and inexperienced but she already knows exactly how to touch Sharon. Knows the right angle, the right speed, when to stop and when to start again, knows exactly when to slide her fingers in and curl them hard.

Sharon cries out, a sharp noise of agonized pleasure. 

Brenda wipes her hands on the sheets, satisfied. 

When Sharon finally opens her eyes, blinking slowly at Brenda in the darkness, she smiles at says, “You’re glowing too.” 

Brenda believes her, feeling odd and heavy and sluggish as she crawls up the bed to give Sharon that kiss that she’d asked for. 

oooo

It’s not quite morning yet when Brenda wakes up to stumble to the bathroom, but the sky isn’t dark anymore. It’s flat and gray and she knows she’s in her own body well before she sees her own expression in the mirror above the sink. 

She’s tired but relieved. 

Nervous, too. Nervous about heading home, nervous about Sharon now that there's not this big thing tying them together. She can see how Sharon might close up again, might distance herself, might fade out of Brenda’s life until only something awful brings them together again. A dead body, a shot cop, Julio’s temper wearing thin again. 

But when she gets back to the guest room, slides back into the bed and rests her head on the pillow, Sharon rolls over and looks right at her, her temples crinkling up as she squints to see Brenda without her glasses. 

“Hi,” Sharon says. 

“Hi,” Brenda says right back. 

Sharon laughs, relieved, and rolls over to hide her face in the pillow, her body fitting against Brenda’s just so. Brenda worms her hand under the covers and touches Sharon’s bare hip while she still can. 

They don’t stick around for breakfast. They don’t even stick around to shower. Sharon wants to go and Brenda knows that’s the right thing to do, that their lives when they get back are going to be on all sorts of fire and it’s gonna take a good chunk of time to put it all out. But still, she feels like dragging her heels a little and she hugs Sharon’s sister in the driveway, thanking her three times. 

“She’s got a tough job,” Brenda says. “But-”

“I know how she is,” Aramanthia says. “At least now, she knows how I am, too.”

Sharon drives and they stop at a Starbucks for coffee and muffins and then barrell on toward the stateline. 

There’s not a lot of talking but once it hits business hours, Sharon says, “Call your husband.” 

“You shouldn’t have to listen to that,” Brenda says.

“I don’t mind,” Sharon says. 

So Brenda does. “Hi, Fritzi!” she says. She tells him that things are fine. She tells that they are headed home, that they’d worked out the issue with Sharon’s sister. Fritz answers in even, measured words. 

“Things been okay with you?” Brenda asks. “And Joel?”

“We’re fine,” he says. “We can talk about it later.”

“I know you weren’t happy about it,” Brenda says. “But I think it was good for me and Captain Raydor anyway. We learned a lot about each other and I think will be a lot more patient with each other in the future.”

“If Sharon Raydor taught you to be patient, I’ll shake her hand myself,” Fritz says. 

“Well you just don’t know until you walk a mile in someone else’s shoes I guess,” Brenda says.

Sharon snorts. 

Long after Brenda hangs up, Sharon says, “Do you think that’s what that old lady wanted out of us?”

“What?” Brenda asks. “What old lady?”

“The one who hexed us,” Sharon says.

“To learn how to see things from someone else’s perspective? Yes, I think that was absolutely the lesson,” Brenda says. “ I wasn’t lyin’ about that whole walk a mile thing.” 

“No, I mean how we, uh… how we fixed it.” Sharon’s hands tighten on the wheel. “How exactly we fixed it.”

“Oh,” Brenda says. “You mean…”

“The method,” Sharon says.

“Do I think that old witch wanted us to have sex?” Brenda asks. “I don’t rightly know, Sharon, I really don’t.”

“It wasn’t sex, exactly,” Sharon hedges and Brenda rolls her eyes.

“Yes, it was.”

“Well, I mean, technically one could call it mutual masturbation and leave it at that,” Sharon says. 

Brenda pushes her sunglasses up onto her head and stares at Sharon in slack-jawed surprise. 

“If one wanted to be technical,” Sharon says. 

“Did you… did you not like it?” Brenda asks. Because she flushes through her whole body if she even lets the memory edge up to the surface of her thoughts. She won’t let herself think about it directly and spend the next several hours squirming in her seat. She’s back in her own body and Sharon affects her as strongly as ever. It might be worse, actually, now. It’s worse. It’s definitely worse. 

“You know I did,” Sharon says. “But that isn’t… the point. You’re married.”

“Yeah,” Brenda says. “I liked it too.”

“Married,” Sharon says. 

“You said what happens in Arizona stays in Arizona,” Brenda points out. 

“No, _you_ said that,” Sharon says. 

“I’m just saying, there’s like an hour and a half until we hit the state line.”

Sharon rolls her eyes. “I’m not having sex with you again, Brenda.” 

“Fine.”

“Not while you’re married,” Sharon adds.

Brenda pushes her sunglasses back down to cover her eyes and says, “I can work with that.” Pauses and says, “But how do you feel about mutual masturbation?”

Sharon shakes her head in exasperation but she’s smirking. 

“I mean that we could do in California, even,” Brenda says. 

“Can we at least finish cleaning up this particular disaster before we embark on a new one?” Sharon asks.

Brenda is saved by the ringing of her phone. It’s Julio and she puts it on speaker phone and says, “Yes, Detective, what can I do for ya?”

“Captain?” he says. 

“No, it’s me,” Brenda says. “We’re just right as rain.” 

“Oh, good,” he says. “So you’re coming home?”

“I’ll be in tomorrow,” Brenda promises. “Captain Raydor, too.” 

“Try not to show up in my office on my first day back, Julio,” Sharon says. “Keep your fists to yourself.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Julio says. “Though I do like our visits.”

“Thanks for holdin’ down the fort,” Brenda says and hangs up. “Could you have done it? Run my squad if we never got swapped back?”

“I think so,” Sharon says. “But they would’ve always wanted you. Even if they didn’t know, exactly, they’d know. They’d always want the Chief.” 

Brenda smiles. It’s a sweet thought, but one Brenda doesn’t believe is true. If her squad ended up in the hands of Sharon Raydor, she knows they’d be in good ones. 

“Guess we’ll never know,” Brenda says.

“Probably better that way,” Sharon agrees.


End file.
